Song is our currency, sweet, musical currency,
and we’ll ply this illegal commodity
on the musical black market, every night,
all night long, the five knuckle shuffle
flitting up and down the piano keys,
harmonized to the shivers down my spine
and the shy smile on your face.

Your father hates me, I know,
too shady a character, too poor by half.
Singers as Mints, he scoffs at the very idea.
But trust me love, I’m rich, so rich,
made rich, by my love and your love and our
songs.

With song as currency, I’m practically a millionare.
The most precious gems I’ve kept securely locked up
in my voice box, for your ears only:
the throaty growls, stifled groans,
whispered need you nows and love you so muchs;
or in my aural memory bank -
ballads, love songs, bawdy songs too (he’s right about the shady character),
a duet for two, a wedding march.

My mind is a symphony, love, for you.

So sing me a medley tonight,
press your lips close to my ear,
and whisper it soft.