My voice is in, I get up for a song.
'Fathom the Bowl,' rolls fairly round the bar,
And leaks through cracks and keyholes, starts the long
And fading journey to the farthest star.
Some stop their talking in the noisy crush.
Some take no notice, no less than their right.
You can't expect a deep enraptured hush
Singing in this pub on a busy night.
But one man on his way out to the gents
Changes his mind and pauses to attend
And listen, though he has to cross his legs,
And rush out when my song comes to its end.
Can Pavarotti make a claim like this?
My voice is more compelling than a piss.
©1997 C. R. Hilton