The day that music died, singing wept.
Into the sea of melancholy voice crept.
Each word spoken reeked with pain.
When could we ever be whole again
Under the rug good lyrics were swept.
Singing is really a magical thing.
Everyone agrees music has a ring
It sates all involved, fills to the top.
Once you begin, you hesitate to stop.
Your imagine yourself to be the king.
There are none too old to learn, they say.
Never again we give our song away.
We'll sing, we'll sing never quiet.
We will sing, until we start a riot.
Music for ever and ever and a day.
8 Aug 11 Charles Henderson