No Song for Supper

And too many songs for none.
Oh well. Do the other things
Other people will pay for.

It’s all a hoax anyway,
Hoax of the fairies and ghosts.
Like the cells in your body,

Culture’s pluripotent parts
All start out about the same
Within organizations

That determine destiny
For the most will be enslaved
To minor roles and rapid

Turnover, while a few groups
Will lodge in roles that allow
Prolonged, secure existence.

There are cells in your skull near
Your inner ear that never
Will have to sing for supper,

Although, if your skull is found
Without you living in it
And then investigated,

It’s those lazy, long-lived cells
That will be dug out and used
For identifying you—

Your vocal cords all rotted,
Nothing left of blood and guts
Or the muscles that moved you.

The cells ensconced near the top
Tell of the glory that was
You, who sang for those not you.