There's a truth in a melody… a world inside a tune…
You don’t hear it nowadays… it’s over far too soon…
They don’t make ‘em like they used to… and I suppose that’s why…
I keep returning to the voices time forgot… the ones who never die…

Oh, give me the warmth of Matt Monro on a rainy English day…
The easy grace of Andy Williams sweepin’ troubles all away…
Val Doonican in his rocking chair… Roger Whittaker’s whistle, clear and true…
That’s the kind of song I wanna sing… not whatever this new noise is supposed to do…

You won’t catch me whistlin’… that’s not a dignified sound…
But I respect the craft, you see… in notes so sweet and round…
Unlike that yowling from next door… that noise they call “post-rock” or “grunge”…
Sounds like a bin lid full of angst… dropped down a flight of stairs… and lunge!

It’s not that I’m against the new, you understand. It’s just…
They’re not saying anything. Not really saying anything at all.
Just shouting. Or whispering miserably.
Where’s the tune? Where’s the craft?

So play me Monro, play me Williams…
Let Doonican rock me off to sleep…
And if I’m feelin’ bold… I might just whistle along…
But quietly, mind you… no need to make a scene…
A gentleman enjoys his song…
But keeps his passions…
Serene.

…Unlike some.