Shall I sing of the earth or of the sea? — 
Of bright-wing'd Mirth, that stays its hour, and flies, 
On fickle wings, to far-off, alien skies; 
Shall I praise these, O Day, and not praise thee 
That giv'st me rare, sweet gifts, — yea, was to me 
As sudden fire; a rapture for mine eyes. 
That made my roused, stung heart to swell and rise, 
Filling it with the joy of joys to be ? 

The year returns, but thee I see no more, — 
Gone as a man's first dream of goodness goes; 
But, where less joys are as forgotten things, 
When I draw near to the pale, shadow-shore, 
Be with me then, to fight against my foes; 
Kiss me, and guard me! hide me with thy wings. 

There once was a singer, old Barney McBard,
Whose voice was as rough as a wire-brush on lard.
He'd warble and wail with the grace of a goat,
But by God, every song came straight from his throat.

Now Barney, he fancied himself quite the star,
Though his pitch was as wayward as sailors in bars.
His manager, Slick Pete, with pomade in his hair,
Said, "Barney, my boy, you're a vocal nightmare!"

"Fear not," said old Slick with a glint in his eye,
"There's a newfangled gadget we simply must try.
It's called Auto-Tune, and it works like a charm,
It'll fix your bum notes without breaking an arm."

But Barney stood firm with his chin in the air,
"I'll not have my voice altered, tweaked, or repaired!
My warbling's authentic, it's genuine stuff,
If you don't like the sound, well that's just tough."

Slick Pete, he insisted, grew red in the face,
"Without Auto-Tune, you're a bloody disgrace!
Your voice is a crime, it's an assault on the ear,
It frightens small children and curdles the beer!"

But Barney just grinned and he picked up his git,
Said, "I'd rather sing poorly than not sing a bit.
My voice may be rough, and my pitch may be skew,
But at least it's all me, and it's honestly true."

So Barney went on with his off-key crusade,
Singing pubs and small clubs, never making the grade.
And one fateful night at the old Frog and Fiddle,
He croaked out a ballad that solved life's great riddle.

For there in the crowd sat a tone-deaf old crone,
Who thought Barney's voice was as sweet as her own.
They married next week in a ceremony grand,
Where they both sang their vows to the horror of all hands.

Now the moral, dear friends, of this musical tale:
True love's often deaf, and off-key to prevail.
So sing from your heart, be it tenor or croak,
For somewhere there's someone who'll get the joke.