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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.