So Barney went on with his off-key crusade,
But by God, every song came straight from his throat.
Your voice is a crime, it's an assault on the ear,
My voice may be rough, and my pitch may be skew,
For there in the crowd sat a tone-deaf old crone,
True love's often deaf, and off-key to prevail.
"There's a newfangled gadget we simply must try.
It frightens small children and curdles the beer!"
They married next week in a ceremony grand,
And one fateful night at the old Frog and Fiddle,
It'll fix your bum notes without breaking an arm."
Now the moral, dear friends, of this musical tale:
His manager, Slick Pete, with pomade in his hair,
Said, "I'd rather sing poorly than not sing a bit.
He'd warble and wail with the grace of a goat,
There once was a singer, old Barney McBard,
My warbling's authentic, it's genuine stuff,
Who thought Barney's voice was as sweet as her own.
Whose voice was as rough as a wire-brush on lard.
If you don't like the sound, well that's just tough."
He croaked out a ballad that solved life's great riddle.
But at least it's all me, and it's honestly true."
"Without Auto-Tune, you're a bloody disgrace!
Now Barney, he fancied himself quite the star,
But Barney stood firm with his chin in the air,
"I'll not have my voice altered, tweaked, or repaired!
"Fear not," said old Slick with a glint in his eye,
But Barney just grinned and he picked up his git,
Singing pubs and small clubs, never making the grade.
Slick Pete, he insisted, grew red in the face,
Where they both sang their vows to the horror of all hands.
It's called Auto-Tune, and it works like a charm,
Though his pitch was as wayward as sailors in bars.
So sing from your heart, be it tenor or croak,
Said, "Barney, my boy, you're a vocal nightmare!"
For somewhere there's someone who'll get the joke.