Like a trembling tower of fruity gelato,
ladies and gentleman—my vibrato.
Even though my voice teacher says not to
warble like a church lady, my vibrato
blurs the pure tone, a little rubato
(how we hate to be confined)—because my vibrato
has a mind of her own, even sotto
voce you can hear the tremulous vibrato.
Like a wren chirruping to her inamorato—
hard to quell that pesky vibrato.
Or an operatic artiste, alone in her grotto,
practicing arias, throbs forth the vibrato.
Lee, glancing at this notebook, asks if I sought to
write an ode to my vibrator? No, babe! My vibrato!
Sing smooth as honey, that’s my motto,
but there she goes again! Vibrato, vibrato.