Melodrama

The melody of our life is made blanch Dazing our seats by denying us to blare We are not orators or sorcerers We are feathers train from the heart Why is our tone buried in the ranch When our melody is so sonorous to hear? We are not trespassing words for lepers Nor are we to weed the falconers parts On the tone is our ditty of ovation Dear melody, our diary of dialogue A darling of our locomotion An era of our useful youthful prologue A play to watch from the heart in action A yolk, that may hands for epilogue.