The Music They Make In Heaven Poem by Dave SmithWhite

From city to country they goeth,
As they travel from town to town.
Via the internet they showeth,
They never let us down.

It's the music they make in heaven,
That easily takes the prize.
Like a bread they bake unleavened,
That never fails to rise.

It's the music they make in heaven,
That's always been their guide.
My tears are slowly wellin',
It breaks me up inside.

All songsters so bestoweth,
Our histories of both joy and pain.
We identify, with times gone by,
And we groweth in refrain.

It's the music they make in heaven,
Where the real world can't invade.
It's pearls before swine and children,
It's magic unfurled in the shade.

It's the music they make in heaven,
As angels yet might describe.
Etching their love on the vellum:
The skills of the monk and the scribe.

Like farmers the best seeds they soweth,
Ensure us a new crop of song.
As listeners our cups overfloweth;
They make us all feel we belong.

It's the music they make in heaven,
Whatever the gods you abide.
How life now needs a new tellin',
When the odds set against you subside.

Now I ask that their friends who knoweth
Them, know that their fans will applaud;
That Jason and Cleo Roweth,
Then, get them the highest award!

It's the music they make in heaven,
That country from which none return.
From borders forever unproven;
On the cusp of the mythic confirmed.

It's the music they make in heaven,
That I will hold close to my breast.
And when it fades out and is ebbin',
I'll go content to my rest.