To sing or not to sing--that is the question
Whether tis’ braver in the world to croon
The bass and falsetto of outstanding range,
Or to fall quiet against the sea of protestors
And, by dreaming, to soar, to manifest
No more--and by a tune to sleep we go
The lonesome and the stifling silence
That one is prone to--’if he quiets
Desperately to be desired. To sing, to dance-
To sing, perchance to happiness. Ay, there’s the problem,
For in the lives of few where dreams come true,
When those have left the music scene,
We must bring in the artists. There’s the history
That makes the muse of a short-lived dream.
For who would take on the critics and haters of reality,
The’ jealous man is wrong, the musical genius alive,
The pangs of sore throats, the voice’s delay,
The ill-manneredness of individuals, and the disdain
The patient worth of the gentle putdowns,
When she herself might her fortune make
With a plain microphone? Who would echoes bounce,
To rap and hum under a sad life,
But that the dread of something without music,
The uncharted land from talents born
No one returns, fame encaptures them
And makes us wish for the quiet we lost
That left when one belted the note?
Thus judgement does make milksops (of us all,)
And thus the fearful  note of love
Is (evaluated) o’er with the black sheet of honesty,
And it reverberates of great devotion and passion
With this regard their riffs float astray
And lose the beat of drums-softly they fade,
The loud soloist-Pariah, to the witness
Be all my harmonies hallowed.