The Ill Wind that Nobody Blows Good

Yes, that's right...it's the OBOE! A four-letter word if ever there was one.

I haven't played since I sold the blasted thing to finance a year of undergrad school "back in the day," but I "jammed for Uncle Sam" for a bunch of years playing...

...yep: OBOE. I sometimes still wake up in a cold sweat, having dreamed that my arsenal of ten perfect reeds are all either cracked or won't work because of a change in the weather. (You know that's part nightmare, part fantasy simply because NO ONE ever had ten perfect reeds at the same time; heck, nobody ever had even five at once that were better than so-so. That's God's curse on reed cane, and on oboists for being insane enough to begin oboe in the first place.)

So here's the quiz result:

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You're an Oboe. Girl power?
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And as my final two cents' worth on this bizarre subject, I'll quote a bit of oboe doggerel which I know, despite the androcentric archaic language, to be all too true (apologies to the "poet," but I don't recall who wrote it; it was in a book called "The Woodwind" that I read in high school when I was learning to play):

Veiled, soft, and sad the oboe's tone;
Not veiled or soft the player's groan
On mornings when his reeds he whittles;
He swears at life, he shuns his victuals:
He wishes he had ne'er been born,
Or learned oboe and English horn.