Unsung

king cole
King of Spades by Tony Meeuwissen

 

Unsung

To those of us who cannot sing,
The songs will always taunt.
To those of us without the swing,
Who haven’t got a note to bring –
The muted melodies still haunt
Each dried-up vocal spring.
To those of us who cannot sing,
The songs will always taunt.

Making music – that’s the thing !
A flourish and a flaunt.
But we who cannot even wring
A reedy rasp or piping ping
Are ever banished from their jaunt,
With not a hook to sling.
To those of us who cannot sing,
The songs will always taunt.

Fiddlers three may please the king,
Or even John of Gaunt –
For who can let the doldrums cling
When songs are rousing on the wing ?
They chirp away so nonchalant,
Unknowing how they sting.
To those of us who cannot sing,
The songs will always taunt.

 

 

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