To my organ

I wish to apologise publicly to the organ which has given me, and continues to give me, the greatest pleasure in my life.
It seems to rise uncomplainingly to the demands I put on it, and only occasionally gives me cause for concern when I have, wittingly or otherwise, abused it.
At the moment, it is quiescent. I think I have temporarily satisfied it, but I know it will back in a few hours, pulsing insistently and forcing me to feed its appetite yet again. One way or another.
I dread the day when it will revolt, when it will finally reject the demands I make upon it. After all, it's been firing on all cylinders for seventy years, and the time must come when all it will tolerate will be bread and milk. No more red meat and red wine. Ah well, I suppose I've sown my wild oats, in a manner of speaking, and have no cause to complain if and when it finally shuts down.
Funny, it's been my faithful organ all these years, and yet I have never actually set eyes on the damned thing.