In the heart of each singer there lives a breathing bird,
Who awakes and greets each morning just to spread his word.
His breast, it swells with air straight from Olympus Mountain,
And the people drink of his melody as a shaded backwoods fountain.

The morning sun invites the song and the singer must oblige;
And when that star takes rest, the song still illuminates the sky.
There is no moment of any spinning day that some tune cannot make               right.
Every singer knows that the Song of Silence often holds the most delight.

Now, where does music grow, but straight out the land and seas?
Amidst the fields and lily-patches live the sweetest melodies.
Many blind optometrists trample song with their learned, leaden feet.
But every child knows to cherish both the flower and the ****.