I was born in the Tower of Song:
A golden-voiced babe, am I wrong?
I live near the bottom but won’t be forgotten.
My critics can move right along.
Inside of the tower they’re singing.
Their A-game they’re typically bringing.
Yet little old me can rent here for free
Because of these ditties I’m winging.
High up in the tower it’s tuneful.
Raw talent, there’s more than a spoonful!
One musical boffin is currently coughing.
His status is making me rueful.
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