The Choir

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.