Grunts from the Wordgrump (11)

Prompted into poignancy by this forlorn message from the music box of a loaner car,

There is no song . . .

. . . when you’ve tracked, calculated the points, and the scale stays as flat as you are fat

. . . when a birthday begins a new decade that makes you sound older than you are

. . . for the lividity that fills your spleen when a social gabber interrupts the delicacy of decision-making during endgame

. . . to capture the joy in your heart when a canine bully at the park finds himself flipped on his back by the thrust of your Saint’s massive head

. . . that can even come close to capturing the “thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears”

. . . to repress the inward smirk of schadenfreude as you’re told of the egomaniac’s fall from fame

. . . loud enough to drown out the damn fool idiot whose heart is full of song

. . . to adequately excoriate the theological troglodytes who are rife among the churched and the unchurched.

. . . like a deliciously obscene ditty, especially if you’ve made it up yourself

. . . like the ones sung by dear old Dad

. . . harder to listen to than the “our song” you had with your ex

. . . that won’t be overworked or overwrought on a TV singer contest

. . . more arresting and unusual than the one sung by a true bass

. . . that  will clutch your heart quicker than the first tune sung by your child or grandchild

. . . that you should give more thought to choosing than the song that will be featured at your funeral