Tomorrow awaits with splendor
In Her hands I will but rock,
With the oboe and the spinet, there is much grandeur
To be known and crowds to shake.
With each passing day there is
Something to write about: the breeze or the next door Miss,
Whatever may be consumable to their delight.
If well put, the feeling and the rhymes,
Together with the bell’s chimes.
Tomorrow may be another day
Which would lively sound bestow and gay
That is if I stick to the oboe and spinet
Or the stages like Peter Tenet.
