Phonetics Poem by Owen Onion

Tumble do the trees in the trill forest,
An unwrinkled mirage of mild waves
Come; to warble the drum of my frailest,
As harvests of waves design the silence.
Arise three bones and transmit the music,
Sweeten these atoms, inflate this opus.
Hear this melodic chant, this sound lyric
Lull those ears with a resonant focus.
But all is commercial, all is aflame
Pestilence scourging what was once intact.
I do not exalt, most crave this harem
As firm that honest chorus will be forgot.
Mark this thunder and a sonorous stone,
For the price of nothing, sound brings you home.