Song of the times

There is a song in all of us. 
A song that we used to sing
loud and bright as children.  

A song that used to annoy,
prickle, and confound the grey
monotones of adults.  

Someway along the road of life,
we start going to school.
We meet other people, hear other songs.
We try to sing along, join a band,
instead of sticking to our songs. 

That’s alright, we say.
What we lose in our singing,
we make up for it in the feeling
of being in tune with others.

We add dulcet tones to
these songs when we fall in love.
We pass out of school and go to college.

If we still remember singing,
we decide to sing, sing out our hearts.
Until we remember that
singing our songs do not pay. 

We learn new songs.
Songs someone else would pay to hear.
We do not sing too shrill,
nor tap our feet to these songs,
because that’s not what a singer does.

We remember the pitch
others want to hear,
the tone that pays and
the voice that is not mercurial.

Pitch, pitch, pitch.
Rhythm, rhyme, no reason.
We marry, and foster children.
We learn to sing along with our partners.

Every song we learn to sing
becomes less annoying.
Every group we sing with
becomes less raucous.

We sing to feed our family,
hum to please our partners,
and we do not whistle,
lest it becomes too radical.

We tone it down.
We make it universally acceptable,
and with that, our songs are
universally pleasing.

Offend no one,
cause no brows to lift.

There is a song in us alright,
but the orchestra plays deafening
silence when we are alone.

In singing cover after cover
of songs that pay and
songs that please,
we have forgotten our songs.

We sang these songs to fit in,
finally sit and work on our hit.
But after all this time,
we can’t remember our song anymore.

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