My maestro melds my music masterfully.
Intimate are his fingers, which bend my strings blissfully.
Like a babe with a new toy, eagerly he plays as he
Makes my chords dance, creating a resonating symphony.
Yes, the god of music is my musician, Apollo be his name;
And as my tones fill the air, great will be his fame.
For I am a king among instruments, while the rest are just pawns.
How dare you compare me to the chicks that “Cuckoo” at dawn.
Bring forth to me an instrument that you believe be higher
And listen to my harmonies, as your weary ears grow tired.
You’ll realize quite swiftly that any other sound be dire.
For what can compare to music of a lyre?