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Music Week commences to-day.

Why is music weak? Because it's always in bars. (Roars of applause.)

HUNDREDS of conductors baton on the music industry. Thousands of unemployed musicians roam the city and suburbs, blowing trumpets. Tens of thousands of collectors roam with them, shaking collection boxes.

The only way these men can get beef is to cornet. (Angry murmurs from gallery.)

The Minister for Education has said that "A country without music is uncivilised."

You are invited to bare your savage breast and have it soothed with a mouth-organ solo. We don't want to harp on this but—let it bassoon. (Sorry.)

There will be a concertina Town Hall one night this week, accordion to programme. (Shrieks of "Want our money Bach!")

The greatest epicures of our times, who have put up all the best epics so far, have been fond of music.

Amy Johnson flute England. Consider Bradman's baton. (Oh, viol!) Kingsford Smith's plane.

These are cymbals of achievement.

The Crematorium of Music, in doing its best to foster a love of music, will enable us all to sing "God Save the King" with passionate fervor at the conclusion of recitals, and gasps of relief on exitting from classical concerts will be emitted in a much more musical manner than here.

We, before leaving you, would suggest that perhaps some little improvement might be effected in our songs.

For instance: "Come to dinner. Come to dinner. Hear the bell! Bacon and potatoes, etc."

Much better would be, "Come to Dinner," and so on, "Porterhouse steak and mushrooms, with a quart of McEwans, black coffee, with lemon, etc."

Let us finish this thing appropriately:

DOH RAY ME FAH SO LAY TEE DOH KAY UM TOO PHUT AM WHOA!

Good.