None Shall Speak
In Op’er’a, where the voices chirp and soar,
Where fat or old or plain remain the greatest draw;
In Op’er’a, be anyone we dream –
Quadoctave star, we vocally supreme –
And the orchestra will make us shine the more.
In Op’er’a, where the voice is ev’rything;
Where we can ne’er be wrong, so long as we can sing.
But some dumb brutes, they wretchedly just croak –
Deformèd mutes, unvocalising folk –
Crippled destitutes, just speech from their throats wring –
They can talk and hoot, but Op’er’a ain’t lis’en’ing.
To be read (but not sung) to the tune of Nessun Dorma.