Hot and lit in a packed-out gig watching spit
Fly from the lips of the frontman,
Near enough to see the blood in the veins
On his neck,
The salt in his sweat,
I was back, for a moment,
Cold in a packed-out school hall,
Rising from the bench to sing aloud
And morning did not break on my tongue.
When the music started up, I mouthed silently along.
And I wondered how it happens that so many of us learn
That it’s somehow wrong to sing our song.