Poetry

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But hark, a guitarist,
after a harp and flaunting flutist,
passed by the road where the
old lyrics lay (monotonously),

took pity and tried to strum a lively chord.


He fingered (an arpeggio) and tried to suppress a fret
for the lyrics' seemed truly out of place:
he was a balladeer, the lyrics classical.
"never mind", he said, "'tis still an old pal."

and took the lyrics to a metronome.

"take care of this song, will ya', fella?
while I play in the gypsies' plaza."

"Watch over him, sir, I'll sure do
till he gets to the proper tempo."

Delighted, the man, picked the tabs
and gave it some extra measure.

Coda:
the rest of the story's easy, my friend,
the lyrics soon revived, and took itself to the charts!
as for the balladeer, the good neighbor here,
he sung a thousand songs more, till his ballads
became novelties, from da Capo al fine.

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