I heard he played a good song . . . .
Ok, that is from Killing Me Softly. A classic song that alludes to a song — not actually sung — that speaks of a woman’s (or every woman’s) hopes, desires and yearnings.
My son is learning to play the trumpet. I was having a migraine. We live in a NYC apartment. “Killing me softly” were not the words that came to mind.
Torturing me screeeeeeechingly, but please kill me quickly.
In truth, my son is getting better (even said the curmudgeonly upstairs neighbor).
But if this be the music of love? (asked someone in a Shakespearan play).
Then stick a sock in it.
Love my child? Of course. Every tone that come out of his mouth? Nah. I have evolved from the true Yiddisha mama.