Despondent and alone,
The little music box plinks on,
Sounding like a heartbroken and cold harp.

You slowly realize,
Little music box,
That your plinking rhythm is actually an anthem.

It's an anthem that many would march to war for,
Little music box,
But remember always,
Little one,
That absolute power will corrupt absolutely.

All for an ideal that plucks from the little music box