A not-so rare hybrid to which many churches must resort, given the dearth of proper organists. . .

On Sundays you’ll see us, we’re part of the team.
But organists aren’t all the same:
While real ones have feet that can dance like a dream,
Pianorganists’ legs just hang lame.

We learned the piano on uprights and grands
And practised for day after day.
That instrument’s easy: one keyboard, two hands –
You sit on the stool, and you play.

The piano keeps both of your arms occupied,
But your feet are left dangling around,
Remote from the action, excitement denied,
Completely ignored, on the ground.

So imagine the terror pianorganists feel
When pressed into organists’ rôles:
Dwarfed by a casework of timber and steel,
A flight-deck array of controls.

If God had meant mortals to play organs, He’d
Have given us ten pairs of hands
And eyes in our feet, for that’s what we need.
I wonder if He understands?

There’s one keyboard up there, another down here,
And often some more in between.
And then you espy, as you tremble with fear,
One more where the floor should have been.

There are stops to the left of you, stops to the right;
And buttons for fingers and feet.
There are couplers and mixtures that fill you with fright
When you hit a bum note off the beat.

So spare us a thought when you catch us out fumbling –
One wrong note can make quite a racket.
This thing has such power; it’s scary and humbling –
But it’s fun when you finally crack it!

[Hoffnung cartoon from www.die-orgelseite.de]
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