Sweet-nothings crescendo into symphonies as our ensemble harmonizes and dims.

Won't you come closer as the stanzas begin to swim, with the notes of a slow ballad

Can't you feel the sleekness of the staffs at every turn of phrase

Why do you his behind the tacets?

Why do you run around the chords?

Embrace that solos and solies and let it slip into your pores

Don't fight tingle of 9A camelot trickling down your spine

A few minutes of run-time, let the record play down to the core

E-minor screams and major moans echo throughout the chamber as I hear the passion of the concierto soar

This could be deplorable but...this could also be an extreme where we depart begging for more

Let the curtain raise, let the formatas be brief

Let the 113 strokes per minute lift you off your feet

Music that sounds this sweet, should be made only to be discovered in disbelief