In the hall inside was an ancient chair where I’d silently sit
Beneath a big carved clock with a wooden bird and a metronomic tick
There was a rug on the floor with a tiger’s head that fixed its vengeful stare
In case my unsuspecting feet should dare invade it’s lair

She’d studied under Beecham and she sang laid on the floor
The Goddess of the highest notes, she’d let the spirit soar
At seventy five she terrified and inspired us to dream
Miss Gwendoline Ayles-Ransley who taught me how to sing

She’d run her hands across the keys as she began to play
‘A little stiffer than she use to be’ she’d sometimes say
With photos of the concert halls from Paris to Berlin
I’d take my place and say a prayer cos then I’d have to sing

I made the pilgrim trip to her old house just out of town
The wisteria she grew around the walls was all torn down
It seemed all sense of her was gone, the house had a new skin
Still I listened through the silence for the music to begin

With light from lamps from India on boys of polished brown
She’d mark the score with a jewelled pen like it was holy ground
At seventy five she terrified and inspired us to dream
Miss Gwendoline Ayles-Ransley who taught me how to sing