Unsung

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.