Why no more romantic symphonies are written
For grand orchestra and stretched gut kitten
Where are the composers of platonic love
Of music that made me dance with a dove
In flight with woodwinds, violins and a piano
Of glorious melodies full of tempting tempo
Rhythms of the magic heart without Wicked
Nor any of the clichéd musicals addicted
Like awful Cats, hidden Phantom down the Opera
Sunset Boulevards, Evitas and a dumb Cinderella
Technicolour dream-coats gone bonkers
Noise sausage for elevated knuckle-draggers
Loud beat from dead Neanderthal skull-drums
Degraded Punk, Pop and Beatles bums
Nor serious notations with necessary discord
That no respected musician really should afford
Interminable repeats and absent counterpoints
Sad dudes who decompose with darkening tones