More of It

More of It


Of all the instruments I love dearly,

There’s only one that plays most clearly.

More bright and clean than cymbal’s crash,

With noise much less, it does not clash.

More beautiful that Aphrodite,

More powerful than Jupiter mighty.


More great than tintinnabulations,

Made by bells across the nations.

Enthralling more than Harpies’ calls,

It stays on beat and never falls.

It’s more exact than Cupid’s arrow,

And thrills the bone down to the marrow.


Critics crave its crazy sound,

From east to west the world around.

It’s presence heard on every beat,

It makes the tap enter the feet.

More in tune than David’s harp,

(For it cannot go flat or sharp.)


More resonant than the tell-tale heart,

Above the rest it stands apart.

More celestial than angels’ chorus,

And more intense than Sir Chuck Norris.

Far more glorious than all the rest,

It’s the cowbell. It’s the best.




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