The horns created

Long decades past, a wise and clever man

With beard unkempt but of distinguished grey,

Proud protegé of Nibelung and elf,

Did gather horns from prongèd antelope

And lowly cow. With base end plugged with clay

And fipple formed, then seven holes for pitch

He drilled in each, that players’ fingers could,

With wit and subtlety, control. Four horns

He made, of different size and character,

Each gifted its own voice: soprano cuts

And slices sweetly o’er with nimble tune,

While friendly alto capers underneath;

Staunch bass hoots forth with stately gait,

While noble tenor whispers harmony.

Each horn itself has but an octave’s range

To play within, so melodies oft pass

One to another, back and forth, shared breath

Combined to single voice express.

The first companion

This spritely elf, his work complete, now looked

About for sympathetic souls, shunned of

Apollo's favor, who would share with him

His Dionysian love of cheese, and beer,

And winding tunes upon the horns of cows.

His first companion, met by chance while sly

Designs on dragons, gold and hobbits they

Pursued, this giving voice, that earthly body to

Their several token subjects, was a bard;

From Newfoundland he hailed, who wrote, and sang,

And shook his ugly stick at all come near.

The elf a horn presented him, a gift

To one he hoped would show the talent, skill,

And lack of pride required to devote

Himself to passing of pastoral wind.

The bard a lullaby composed for both

This bovine flute and his young daughter's birth

To celebrate. The elf, elated but

Not satisfied on hearing this new piece

Now doubled his resolve and schemed anew

To turn his plan from dream to happiness.

The quartet complete

Two more, known to the bard, were quickly seized

And made the second half of the quartet.

The third to join, a witty man of deep

Stentorian voice and learnèd mien, oft played

Both flute and games of words, the first to draw

Some joy, the other groans, from any who

Would take the time to hear. His Stygian

Tones, in choral terms the basest voice,

(Perhaps some subtle Freudian need as well),

Informed his choice to take the largest horn.

And last, the fourth, in earlier life a player

Of the flute of some small skill, though turned

In recent days from serious pursuit

By injury and circumstance, still oft

Would take amusement giving breath

To silver tubing bright. In his sure hands

The alto horn gained unexpected life

And virtuosity, with moving line

Matched only by sweet trill and counterpoint.

Bonds forged

Now came the four together, Gemsmen all,

And founded friendship new in music old.

From simple tunes by unknown herdsmen made

And stately pavanes danced by royalty,

To drinking songs and shanties sung in cities

Old or on the decks of wooden ships.

But restless soon, the four now found that horns

Can timeless music play, and took new joy

In modern songs or television themes

Of ancient wars for stars or gamey thrones.

In time from tired lips sweet horns would fall,

When drank dank beer, or smokey, sour or bold,

And found as great delight from each affront

To taste as from each pleasant newfound brew.

Then suspect cheese they shared in portions large,

Well supplemented too with figs, baguettes,

And salty sticks of meat. Then gossiped they

On orbits, game design and emu feet,

On authors, cake decor and dinosaurs.

Once slaked their common thirst for music, food,

Strong barley wine, and sedentary speech,

They took them each their weary way to bed.

The horns heard