Singing with pride, hear ye;
'em gay lot, fresh out of their
flooded flats near that
National Park where deer
cross roads to meet sleepy kids
walking their talk on strings,
stretched to its limits by silly calculus;
while men rush to get warm.
Their choir, led by fat ones a million,
the Bass, who can wait hours for food
and dive deep to stay alive,
then jump up to breathe and make love.
Tonight they hog the lights,
with extra spark from Sopranos,
who we never catch on TV;
the playback singers, feared
for they hum for the ghosts.
The Composer's proud - look
at Her streaks of joy shimmer;
the very tears that made them sing.