I sing a song without a single word,
My voice can soothe the weariest of hearts.
Through criticism my hymn be deterred;
Through applause comes respect for the fine arts.
My aria invokes a tender sound;
And my lovely ballads dance on my scroll.
The memories of my tune will resound;
While my final cries continues to toll.
  But you blame me for such imperfect notes;
  Belittle me for the smallest mistakes.
  I only play what a composer wrote;
  Your expectations cause my strings to break.
   I know that your patience is wearing thin,
   But I am proud to be your violin.