A pluck on ones heart strings, is comparative to that of a bass

A single secluded mellow twang, with ominous meaning and timbre

And onsomble of these vibrations can cause serious lasceraritions to the skin, as I palpate profusely until the overall  feel, is that of a discarded once fruitful orange peel.

Describe what is heard, go on I dare you to try, the low earthy tones produced can only make you cry

Try and be more upbeat, says the conductor with malice in his gesture,
For this is no game, this is not adventure
Stick to piece at hand, the paper adjacent to my thumb

We’re early on in this orchestral life tragedy, it’s barely even begun
Strike up a chord, tune those broken old strings. And below the true meaning of life, sing what must be sung. But if all else fails from a rope I shall be found hung