My Didge | nosirrah

I’ve got a didge
It's standing by the fridge
Every once or so I go and blow It just a smidge
I try to keep the sound going
Breathe in while I’m still blowing
But it never sounds ridgy-didge

I met a woman - says I ought-a
Sink the the other end in water
Blow against that pressure
I even bought a tape
The lessons there purport to show
How native men are taught to blow
But though I’ve heard it to and fro
A thousand times from go to whoa
When I blow I sound as though
I’m garrotting an ape

An Inuit from Anchorage
Says my sound is sacrilege
If I retained any vestige
Of pride I’d jump right off a bridge
Or failing that take pilgrimage
Out west beyond the farthest ridge
Where my sound could not damage
(By internal haemorrhage)
Tiny tender ears
The dubious privilege
Of my acoustic sewage
Should, henceforth, be abridged
To the otic appendages
Of the desert midges
It appears

Nor should I be holding hostage
Those poor souls whose foolish fosterage
Of the tone deaf causes wreckages
Of so many lives and marriages
Not to mention the motor carriages
That they tend to drive astray
He wants to discourage
My auditory garbage
He’d even pay the postage
If I’d wrap it in a package
And send my didge away

But I think I’ll keep my didge
I’ll leave it standing by the fridge
And every once or so I’ll go and blow It just a smidge
Who knows?  Maybe one day
I’ll pick it up and start to play
A sound like it was meant that way
A sound that’s ridgy-didge
On my didge