The neighborhood was changing.
They say it was going down.
They were putting up new houses east of town.
Now, Mrs. Ernst gave piano lessons Sunday afternoons
to the children of the neighborhood. She’d teach simple tunes.
At the old pianola, they’d hammer and they’d pound,
while Mrs. Ernst’s husband read the paper with a frown.
Mrs. Ernst had a visit from a neighbor, Mr. Gunn.
Mr. Gunn wanted piano lessons for his son.
Mrs. Ernst said “I must think it over.” He asked her “Why?”
She said “I have my reasons, sir. Thank you, and goodbye.”
Mrs. Ernst’s husband, he had fixed views.
He saw the world as black and white, and he saw no subtler hues.
Mr. Gunn was surely black, but Mrs. Ernst, she thought
“A child is a child, and children should be taught.”
So that evening Mrs. Ernst asked her husband if she might
give piano lessons to a black child. “Surely it’d be alright.”
Mr. Ernst answered her in no uncertain terms
“Over my dead body!” said Mr. Ernst.
“Over my dead body!” Mr. Ernst replied.
“Over my dead body!” he said, and soon after, he died.
Now, Mrs. Ernst, a widow, did what must be done,
and gave piano lessons to Mr. Gunn’s son.
Now Mrs. Ernst still gives piano lessons Sunday afternoons
at the old pianola in her living room.
While Mrs. Ernst’s husband looks down at her from a frame,
and she knows he wouldn’t like it, but she does it all the same.