I like the little fellows who don't count for very much: It isn't from the 'cellos that you get the finer touch; The roaring of the basses and the rattle of the traps May have their proper places in the harmony perhaps; But down there in the middle, inconspicuously there, Is the little second fiddle that is carrying the air. The crashing of the cymbal shakes the ceiling with its "Blam!"; The piccolo is nimble; "Boom!" you hear the drummer slam; The trombone slides and screeches; "Tut, tut, tut," the proud cornet Just a little higher reaches than it's ever tutted yet; The Main High Diddle Diddle runs his fingers through his hair -- But the little second fiddle still is carrying the air. We talk about the bosses with the big and busy brain, Making profits, taking losses -- but the boss would boss in vain If he didn't have assistance, someone handy he could trust; He would never go the distance, and the company would bust. Here's the secret of the riddle of successes ev'rywhere -- There's some little second fiddle that is carrying the air! |