We sing our songs from the back of our teeth

In underground bars and across the street

With nothing but a glittering smile,

A borrowed guitar, and a very short while.

In English and French, maybe Mandarin,

We say the same thing, again and again.

Something is lost or something is gained.

The both of these cause us a special pain.

Whether or not we start in the wrong key,

Or burping out the words after some drinks,

We sing our own and those of other men

Who may have found a better way to send

Their souls through hand and to the other ear,

No longer worried, having beaten back fear.

I sing my songs to prove they’re worth hearing

To everyone listening, but mostly to me.