In this tune, you will spy likeness in the diction. Why?
Anaphora.
In this tune, you will find the same three words five times.
Add a fourth? Naw!

Hellish thing, my stinking singing, fling me in Sing Sing--
I don't swing voce bella.
Start to bray, drivel's m. forte. List'ners say, "Oy vey!
Yikes, a spayed-ferret beller!!"

In this tune I have fooled; junked up a pastiche; I'm cruel
an' a forger.
In this tune there's a beat, but it's drowned in repeats at the front.
In this tune, a cad keens, like cat scream when van creams an angora.
With this tune, "Cease, you plead!" but da capo leads to
"Anna, Fore-a."

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'Anna, Fore-A!'

What this loon Chico cries while a dimpled pill zaps wife:
"Anna, fore-a!"
When she's striving to drive, plying a number five:
"Anna, four-a!"

Swells who swing. "Ringa-dinga-ding, ringa-dinga-ding,"
Frankie sings, fino, bello.
Pars they'll play, lips'll sip away, tipple-drip all day,
Tight, he'll bray: Dino bellow.

Where's Barbera for fuel just after pasta's fork-spooled?
An amphora.
Penne: entrancing treat; he has vowed that he'll eat what he loves.
The gnocchi's sluiced with cream, and from it wafts, steaming,
an aurora.
"'Scusa me," butts in he, bags a rolled cannoli an' a four. . .ahh!