On the day the music died, it seemed my heart had broke in two –
Broken by false friends’ perfidy, their hypocrisy and lies –
My singing quenched, my song destroyed, ’twas all that I could do
Then to walk away, leaving behind the music which had died.
For songs – like birds – are winging: they are joyful in their flight
For they lift those hearts who sing them, and who hear them by and by.
But as birds are slain by arrows wearing feathers once them dight –
They my singing killed by words of hate: and quickly did it die.
So my pen takes up my burden which I once had put in song
For my prosody can still sing out, and strike the cadence bold.
My music, it lies interred inside its tomb: as it has long.
As my pen burns brighter, hotter: so my music’s corpse is cold.