Oh! say on a Pillow of Down can you rest,
While I on the Earth or on Straw must recline!
Oh! say can you wrap the warm Fur o'er your breast?
While bare to the Winds and the Tempest is mine.

No Pillow have I, even that you deny one,
No Garment have I, nor a Penny to buy one,
He hears not, nor Pities my frantic distress,
Yet sure he remembers mad Wand'ring Bess.

He gave me bright Gems, and he gave me much Gold;
And proud was his fond foolish Anna to wear them,
But the love which he gave, Oh! it soon grew cold;
And then I no longer, no longer could bear them.

Can Gems calmly lie, on a fast breaking heart,
Can they bind the poor brain, the poor brain that's on fire,
No my sighs from my heart, bade the bright Jewels start,
And the throbs of my brain, of my brain burst their wire.

I sent them all back from a Soul on the rack,
And said all thy presents deceiver I spurn,
For that Jewel my fame, which I gave thee Oh! shame,
That Jewel most precious, thou can'st not return.

They tell me I'm wild, but I answer oh! no,
For my wrongs for my wrongs still my memory can seize on,
And trust me to know the extent of ones woe,
Is a proof too sure of Reason, is a proof too sure of Reason.

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.