| Invite you in. Sit back, at the bar stool
|
| A few down, it’s stiller than planned
|
| And most of us shy
|
| There’s a drop and refrain
|
| Sharp words, harsh beliefs
|
| A few songs down
|
| I’m wearied and I recant
|
| And the singer’s soft-spoken
|
| Still cunning but empty
|
| It’s enough to be hurt
|
| A thumb in the wound
|
| I should just walk and let it all glance by
|
| In rhyme, rolling mantras calling on
|
| Each time, with the stanzas' falling hum
|
| Heaven knows my dirge
|
| I’ve sighed and crooned each verse
|
| It’s over, and played out
|
| I’ll take my hat and bow
|
| And the singers have spoken
|
| Grown cutting and angry
|
| It’s the goal to be heard
|
| A thought from the wound
|
| So I should comply, or think it over?
|
| I’m running away?
|
| No faith in this room
|
| I should just balk and let it all slip by
|
| Some in seven, some in nine
|
| Crossed words
|
| Some rhymes won’t work
|
| Spite, emboldened yet trite
|
| I’m weighed and lopsided
|
| You cannot be hiding enough
|
| I tried, time and every time
|
| Gave up and I’m fried
|
| Now retired, I gave enough
|
| The song’s healing nostalgia soured
|
| Now it’s merely maudlin
|
| My sole tenor is drowned out
|
| This din grew dischord. |
| I’m bowing out
|
| So no hesitation, swift on our way
|
| Or you’re drowned out
|
| No reservations, no encore to play
|
| I’m bowing out |