Mozartkugel

When he was a young boy, a child prodigy, his mother would tempt him with chocolate shavings.
“I want to play,” he said.
“You are, my dear. Stay at the piano.”
“Outside, I mean.”
“Have some more chocolate.”

His mother prevailed. He played at the court, wrote symphonies, concertos, operas and canons.
“What’s that you’re playing?”
“Lick my arse.”
“Don’t be vulgar.”
“It’s a canon for six voices in B-flat major. It’s a party piece for my friends.”
“Wolfgang!”
“You said I should play.”

When he crawled on the floor and made rude comments, Salzburg was outraged; or maybe it was other way round. So he went off to Paris. He found no work there so slunk back to his home town, knowing it was over and that he had to get out. He’d “noodle” his music, the true sign of genius, and drink himself silly just for the fun. Then he left for Vienna, the city that saved him. So he gave it the best that he could: piano concertos and operas from Figaro to The Serail.

But all the while infection was waiting in the wings. When it struck, he thumbed his nose once again and channelled his forces into The Magic Flute. His Requiem, though, remained unfinished.
Today, he’s their son. They always welcome punk rockers. For a whole year in his honour they set up phone booths in the city: Calling Mozart!

A money-spinning icon, he still wears his hair long; it’s caught back neatly for he’s now immortal. He died young as they do when they’re eaten by passion, but on main street Vienna they now sell his balls. They’re made of dark chocolate with green marzipan innards and his face grins out at you as you peel off the gold foil.

Rock me, Amadeus!