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The Band

Mr Mic

Poem by George Duric-Last - Photograph by Ally Bain

The bands prepare for battle
In the dark and moving silence.
I have one shot. Mic is the trigger.
The city of speakers is the gun.
Guitarists and the drummer: each knows his part.

The Mic awaits on the razor's edge, walk it.
There is magic at your fingers,
A spirit that never lingers.
Unite the strings, percussion, moog
And lead a song to elevation in the deepest
Wells of emotion, buried
Deep in our hearts.
And to the smallest number within the charts.

Each voice different from one another
In our mouths, under lock and key.
Mystical black orb, a thread of blue buzz
All connected
Look to the spotlight, expose your tender spot
And release the hidden power.
A force perfect in pitch: a temptress of tone
The Singer.

My Bass and Me ~ Synth and Synthibility ~ Taylor of Triumph ~ The Professor



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