She only wants to know what’s right,
But often she is tempered wrong;
The metronome inside her self
Is off the rhythm of her song.
So there she sits in silver waiting
Watching grace notes light her way;
Somewhere in this discord she will
Find the proper tune to play.
Bells inside this box of music
Tread the road they’re set to chime;
Enclosed in her wooden frame
Is silent the unsung sublime.