I was the perfect taproom song
crafted to be a calloused soul
People would beat me, belt me out
and I would gladly make them whole.

I could wring tears from hardened men
my notes would squeeze, and people wept
I would spread gorgeous, raucous noise
and all were moved and no one slept.

I used to move the stones to tears
together the men and metal cried
Drawn all around me was my kin
my son was Grief, and Love, my bride.

Sadly the years have not been kind
decades of dust have settled down
stifling what once was glorious rhyme
and I inhaled the dust and drowned.

Sometime around the birth of God
people neglected what they’d found
they overlooked that man sang songs
and they forgot the sway of sound.

Remember me, oh dearest ear!
I cannot be the song that died
I must go on, and sing my kin
my son is Grief, and Love, my bride.

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