There are 88 keys to my heart.
36 are morbid and dark.
They are the best of friends to me.
52 are bright and happy.

Some of them are quick and sharp.
They are always on their mark.
While others can be a bit flat.
They are lazy yet they aren't fat.

The extend themselves straight as a stem,
where 230 strings may connect them.
The some times do not get along,
Even when they make a song.

With a whisper or a mention,
The exists a lot of tension.
Arguments cause such a sound.
With tension nearly 165 pounds.

Even the best that we all call grand,
In a room its presence may stand,
We will still call it a baby,
or upright, parlour, concert, maybe.

My friends, you number so many.
I assure that 88 is plenty.
Under my finger tips you lay,
As a press, you respond and say:

It is I, the noble 440 'A'
I will sing a concert as you play.
Closely comes the middle 'C'.
As I rest my thumb upon that key.

The ebony and ivory, glisten.
I urge you come and listen.
Your ears, they're sure to please.
To unlock my heart, are 88 keys.

Best of wishes in all your future endeavors and love to all,
- the one without shade.