verses are cryptic

The Song That You Sing

I don’t like the song that you sing
the way that you sing it
the key that it’s in
I don’t like the lyrics
That turn of a phrase
The bridge or the chorus
The tempo it’s in
You sing like you mean it
But it’s truly a sin
The way that you phrase it
The pitch that it’s in
I don’t like the song that you sing
The verses are cryptic
Your ear’s lined with tin
You say that you like it
Without any chagrin
You snort like a trumpet
Sound reedy-thin
I don’t like it
The song that you sing

What I’m Reading:

“Music for when the music is over
Is what a poem is. There’s no music
In a poem, just the imaginary
Composer breathing beneath the deep wreck…”

— Rowan Ricardo Phillips / “The Peacock”

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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