She is but a small dog, a professor of Music. Her struggles have been many in what might seem at first, a vain attempt to teach a laboring soul how to write Music. She knew that Heaven and Hell took an interest in this lowly of songwriters, who had no discipline or gravity to meter the measure in sound. So Why? Why bother? It would certainly be the hardest road that Music could ever take. And Professor Maxey b already had great acclaim amongst her peers. However she would meet this task, and take this lowly student forward.
Many years would now pass. And Professor Maxey b has grown older. Though through the years she cracked the whip diligently, to melodize the common trough of this porous profanity, at best, a minglement of tones. "Good God!" she barked, "is there no end to this sprof." Still she had hope for me. And yes I, the lowly student, be it Paul Dresser, that I am. Shall now step forward into the first person to finish this story.
The professor always told me, "look up to no one." Funny, she always laughed after she'd say that. But today when I think back it some how makes sense. I can remember while playing my Music, she'd let me imagine how great I was, then coaxed me along in my train of arrogance until I'd run out of track. The professor knew when to pounce upon me. Often, she would drag me into the dark depths of discord, and threaten to soil those copy written pages which only I did treasure. As much as I wanted to quit Music I knew I couldn't. I was cursed by both God and Lucifer to write Music forever and ever (selah).
I could tell that all the other professors felt a tinge of sorrow for Professor Maxey b. That she should have such a bad student as myself. So, as the curse goes, continuously, I now write and play and write and play, day after day, day after day. To what avail?
It was near the Eventide of day.
The professor was resting near one of the speakers while I played the keyboard. She was old looking now, and had this kinda funny little grin on her face. Sadly I felt that I had let her down. It seemed I was entrenched in a personal failure incurable. Me Angry? At who? God? Lucifer? -probably- but, mostly at myself.
Then it happened. I thought to myself, if ever I was suppose to write a song worthy of mention, then it will happen now! And if it doesn't happen, then let the curse of Paul Dresser be broken.
So I started to play, spontaneously, my hands redeemed the keys, and uplifted the keyboard inspiring improvisation as never before. Where does thought go in such a rill? A rill that stirs the angels, and their temptations of Music. And as I played I saw the professor, she cocked her ear upwards. And I realized that this professor, this small dog of wisdom, was listening blissfully to my Music while dying. Suddenly I stopped and quickly kneeled by her side. I could hear her sighing those final last breaths that strive to take us away. Incredibly her eye's, then looked clearly into mine, and I heard her say, "Please remember me dear student, this I pray, for I am The Phantom of Biscay."