The Smallest Pipe Band Ever!

Here we go.  Uh, you guys coming?  Okay, I'll just keep going then?  Uh, ok.  

Hey, you guys aren't pipers.  Where's the band?  Oh it's just me?  Hmmm.

Well at least I can have this flag in my sporran,  heh, heh.  

Band! By the Center, Quick March!  Oh wait, I'm talking to myself again, never mind just keep going.  The sound of the drones and then the beautiful skirl of the pipes.  Hey, wait a minute, my pipes don't Skirl.  You're thinking of those other guys.  That's right,

SKIRL: A shrill, wailing sound, especially that of bagpipes.  Oxford Dictionary

Hmmm, that doesn't sound very pleasant, must have been coined by an Englishman.  Try this:

SKIRL: The soulful music that lifts a person to transcendent heights and provides healing balm for the bereaved soul.   PiperBob Dictionary

Yes, much better.  Anyway, there I was marching down the street with my Jacobite shirt and kilt, sporting a beautiful set of Naill bagpipes, engraved I might add.  Oh the grandeur of it all; the women fainting (not sure why that was, could be my forgetting to shower that morning); the children running in panic, screaming for aid.  The farm animals restlessly pawing the earth desperate for peace (I love it when that happens).  All this as I strut forth plying my trade and filling the air with the melodious strains of "Scotland the Brave", "Green Hills of Tyrol", "Rocking the Baby", okay that last one wasn't as traditional but it still rocks.  

I marched and marched at a grueling pace for almost a quarter mile.  What a sight, what a rock of Gibraltar.  The manliness, the sheer grit, and that was just the asphalt.  With every step, the crowd undulating and screaming their acclamation, "Give it a rest", "Get a job", "Is that a kilt or a dress?".   Ah yes, they loved it.  Seldom does one receive such useful counsel from strangers.  Their wishes and heartfelt suggestions touched me.  I could feel the emotion welling up, much like a well digested round of curry.  

I cast a loving glance to my ardent admirers only to see most were absent.  That's right, there were only a few brave souls huddled in the fetal position with their fingers in their ears, obviously so overcome by the beauty of my music that it rendered them helpless to their pent up emotions.  Where were the crowds?  

Then the thought came to me, 

"Your's is a solitary life.  Few can appreciate the symphony that you present.  Let the swine feast on their tripe of mediocrity, you're strains are meant for loftier patrons."  

Maybe That's why Pipers play in the cemetery.   No matter, it was an honor to serve these poor teaming masses.  I was again reminded why I do it all: it's for them.  Viva la Pipe!