Poulenc was such a strange, but wonderful composer. For some reason -- perhaps the unexpected twists and turns many of his more famous works, like the Concerto for Organ, Strings, and Timpani take -- he has been the recipient of an unusual amount of sneering from the musical intelligentsia. But many of his works are dead serious, and masterfully wrought. This month we hear a perfect little song which is full of Poulencian whimsy. Ian Bostridge, one of only a handful of truly terrific tenors alive (and who doesn't sound like a choking, high-pitched chicken), blasts through this tour de force with great flair and derring-do.