Music now, belongs
To the cynic, the critic
The slayer of sound
To lyrics that blush
And music of embarrassed
Nursery rhyme
To marketing
The press-con, the byte hungry
News hound
Songs educated by MBAs
Cast out for surveys
Abound!
Is it tra-la-la enough?
Does it merge
With the breeze?
Is it hipper and hopper?
FM friendly?
A traffic stopper?
Top 40, Top 50,
Sweet melody
Dolloped on ice cream
As background,
For teenaged, backless
Backseats
Behind sunscreen
In ear-piece
Amid elevators
And hotel lobbies
On posters with freebies
On facebook, on mp3.
Sound hasn’t thundered
Or wondered
Or mellowed
Or howled
Or disturbed
And perturbed
Or mangled
Or growled
Hasn’t
Used Art for art’s sake
Used craft or stave
Not written or smitten
Or educated and played
It’s under a thumb
Thicker than dumb
Eclipsed by a moon
That deafens tunes
In AMTs and Sec A-Bs
As backgrounds for TGs
Hooks please
No cacophony
It’s found its resting place
De-fanged and commodified
Turned into a product
That you sell
And I buy.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
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1 comment:
And while Lennon read a book of Marx,
The quartet practiced in the park,
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died.
Don McLean
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