A note I cannot play.
Nor can I sing as a Nightingale in flight.
Love a guitar that's tuned up to sing for me.
As long as another sings the songs.
The joy of magic music.
Played by an artistic maestro.
A multitude of pretty sounds.
Choice words may come to me easy,
Beg me, I pray not that you ask of me to sing.
For I have the rhythm of a strangled cat.
And the banshee howling in the yard speaks much better than me.
My vocals they will torture you.
Your eardrums assaulted beyond belief.
The moment I stop singing, a bucketful of sweet relief.
Once I sang a tuneless poem the room it roared with laughter.
My ad-lib singing poem one mega deaf disaster!
(C) Livvi