For our fellow hymn-lovers
|by Gina Dalfonzo|
Immoral, impossible, God only knows
How tenors and basses, sopranos, altos
At service on Sunday are rarely the same
As those who on Wednesday to choir practice came.
Unready, unable to sight-read the notes,
Nor counting, nor blending, they tighten their throats:
The descant so piercing is soaring above
A melody only a mother could love.
They have a director, but one wonders why:
No one in the choir deigns turn him an eye.
It's clear by his flailing, he wants them to look,
But each singer slouches with nose in the book.
Despite the offenses, the music rings out.
The folks in the pews are enraptured, no doubt.
Their faces are blissful, their thoughts appear deep,
But it is no wonder, for they are asleep.
(Author, unknown. We will be accepting equally abusive verses for instrumentalists.)