Smooth the varitone melodies of my heart
to one concordant hymn of praise
and quell my trite augmented roots
that sting with intoned inelequence.
Flay my weathered scales of forged remorse,
contrition tempering dischordation
and burying octave differences
behind the composition's frame.
Beach the tremolo of weary pitch
and bring me to a coda's rest
where hallelujahs spring from key
and not from sour dissonance.
Bathe this stagnant opus in the gleam
of absolute resolve from tense
suspension, hanging dominant
in verse with vast diminished fear
And raze crescendoed appetites of songs
in tenor and in tune amiss
and bleeding out the tempo of
the only metronome of worth.