Songs I chant cause grieving;
When I screech, there’s danger,
Yes, my screech means danger—
A cross ’twixt loud-plane boom
And nails on chalkboard,
Then both dames and men
Beseech, “Get this screecher
Clear out of my ken!”

Songs I chant cause grieving;
No one will be laughing
At my fearful gaffe-ing.
They’re cross, would drop the boom
On me—they’d be right
To stifle my screams;
My sound shakes the rafters
And give crowds bad dreams.

It causes pain; it
Can make grown men cry;
It’s far from pleasin’
Especially notes high.

Songs I chant cause grieving;
I won’t find a tune love
Among all of the crew
Across this crowded room.
No tries to abide. . .
“You snake, go on home
And torture your wife.
Just, please, leave us alone!

“You have a sound, sir,
Wretched—so no-no—
Much like a hound, sir,
Rent with no novo[caine]!!”