Etudes, they make you mad.
But practicing songs makes you better.
Go over and over and over the part--
Although it smarts, you will get better.

Etudes, you think they're made
To make you sweat till you get wetter.
The liquid is pouring off of your skin,
So have a gin and doff your sweater.

Yeah, keeping time is such a pain. "Refrains!"
Teacher screams, looking over your shoulder.
Down which is now dripping his drool, which starts to pool
With your sweat. You're going for your holster.

He's rude; you'll shoot him down
If he doesn't curtail the patter.
Bad enough that he makes you play the part
Ad infinitum--now he splatters.

So let breath out and draw it in. Etudes might win
You a seat in a group to perform with
Even Couperin suffered through études
To do the movements with beats that make you smolder.

Etudes--they're not so bad.
They go on and on, and you sweat 'em,
Forever practice repetitive parts--
Take them to heart, at last you'll get 'em,
Get 'em, get 'em, get 'em. . . .

Practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice études.
Practice. . . .