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Poetry
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| The Choir. | |
| By Reynaerde | ||||
| 06 September 2008 | ||||
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Ignore the corner. My friends Speak in verse It’s a literary curse The howling Choir Devoid of face The mannequin men Like a chorus Held in line I’d speak like them But I haven’t the time. No!-Damn, you see The rhythm’s Getting to me It seeps through the skin And soaks your clothes Outside and in You’ll find your sense Of self Of I Is reduced to lyrics Forced false together Time To fly Sometimes your voice Will curve to the tune But so senseless it’ll be That you’ll sound like a loon That’s the price That we pay To sing Every day The price of our song The plague of the Choir.
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