If there was a quire
Whose tones idly rose higher
Higher and higher and higher
For each and every year
If they into the heights spire
Until they rose to a level
No other ones could acquire
And the critics somewhat bedevil
This constantly obscene versery
Filled with blistering bevel
The notes that flank and curses flee
But still the quires revel
A sound you can't hear, a sound you can't see
Because it is so high that it can't be heard
And with this tone strange to all humanity
They uttered a verse without spoken words
No one could understand, nor could they sense
The power or beauty in those words in swift French
But did not the little man English in brew
Appreciate the foreign silence in cue
And how about the Spaniard sitting on a row
Did he not appreciate the smooth and toneful flow
In a language he didn't speak, yet he could not hear
The notes that slowly eloped through the room, loud and clear