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The melody went round and round in the master's mind over and over again, a jaunty little tune full of life and promise, but a bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum.

It was not a tune for a funeral. And yet on this sad and dreary day, it was the melody the master could not seem to shake, even as the string quartet filled his garden with a requiem far more suitable to the occasion. These 17 notes persisted like a splinter in his mind.

But a bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum.

The mourners approached him with great sympathy and spoke gently. We are so sorry for your loss, Maestro. We know you loved him dearly. Such a shame to be taken so young. What an extraordinary talent he was.

They meant well, but their words did not assuage the Master's grief, nor did the jaunty little tune pulled from thin air by the penniless singer three years before.

How could he have known those seventeen notes would lead to such a remarkable collaboration? How could he have known the degree to which he would come to rely upon his talented protege?

In moments, the penniless singer would be lowered into the ground, and the master knew he'd be forever haunted by the seventeen notes that brought them together.

But a bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum. The string quartet concluded the requiem as the master pulled the poem from his waist coat and prepared to address those assembled, in truth, he felt a measure of relief.

He had done it. He had pulled together a funeral fit for a nobleman. There was music, food, a tasteful headstone, and most of all, a grave for one that didn't always happen in Vienna. In those days, underground space was at a premium and common graves were not uncommon, even for the wealthy. Thus, the dearly departed were often obliged to share the same trench with a variety of other corpses. But not today.

Today, the master had arranged at no small inconvenience, a private plot and a beautiful headstone, a tasteful and dignified place of rest for the collaborator who inspired him to write like no one ever had.

In the first year alone, their partnership had yielded 22 separate concerts and six original concertos. It was unprecedented, and the master knew it would have never happened without the young singer who auditioned for him out of the blue, the unlikely muse who inspired him at every turn to dig deeper, to write more, to be as brilliant as he could possibly be. The master brushed away tears and thanked the crowd for coming. Then he began to read the poem he'd prepared for his dead friend and elegy for a singer who would sing no more.

He was still in his prime when he ran out of time.

Thus, my sweet little friend came to an end, creating a smart deep in my heart.

Truly, the master was a maestro, but he was not a wordsmith. The mourners listened respectfully, however, while staring at their shoes.

I bet that now he is up on high, praising friendship to the sky, which I render without tender for. When he took his sudden leave, which brought to me abiding grief, he was not thinking of the man who writes and rhymes as no one can.

After the poem, the master walked to the piano and played a musical tribute to the dearly departed. Then the mourners retired, and a few years later, to no one's great surprise, the master found himself attending another funeral. His own. It, too, was a sad affair, prematurely hastened by a lifetime of booze and debauchery, but well attended by those who admired his talent.

A string quartet played a requiem as the mourners paid their respects. We are so sorry for your loss, they said to his widow. We know that you loved him dearly. Such a shame to be taken so young. What an extraordinary talent he was.

When this service was concluded, the mourners retired and the master's body was hauled away and dumped into a common grave with half a dozen other cadavers where it was covered with lime and dirt and left for the worms. To this day, the exact whereabouts of his remains remains a mystery.

His legacy, however, is easy to find and well worth discovering. A legacy that is at base, a collection of notes, musical notes brilliantly arranged into dozens of concertos and cantatas, sonatas and symphonies, operas and requiems and serenades, notes that will be remembered for as long as mankind can appreciate musical genius. Notes that do, however, include a few he did not arrange, like the 17 he first heard on May 27th, 1784, while shopping in a pet store.

But a bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum. Those were the notes that caught the master's ear.

And today, two and a half centuries later, you can still hear them memorialized in the third movement of his piano concerto number 17 in G, a jaunty little tune full of life and promise, a tune that was first sung to him by a penniless singer who went on to become his trusted collaborator, inspiring his most prolific period, helping build a musical legacy. Unlike any other such was the contribution of a European starling which the master purchased for 34. Kreutzer s a hefty sum for a bird, but a small price to pay for a beloved pet, a pet who was honored by his heartbroken master with a funeral fit for a nobleman, a master whose own funeral was a more modest affair.

The master and the maestro and. The bona fide bird lover. Called Mozart. Anyway, that's the way I heard it.