By Berin Gowan

We do our best, try not to go wrong;
It's jolly hard work to master each song.
The words, the notes, when to smile for the crowd,
And to draw a breath when you're allowed,
If the arm stays up, you must hide the pain
Until the moment you can breathe again.

We drummed, we piped, and saluted the air,
We oom-pahed all around the square.
We sung about peace, sweet-hearted with eyes,
Sung out our hellos and waved our goodbyes.
But still that note we have to sustain
Before we're allowed to breathe again.

Had we swooped on the oo's, or slurred our ss's?
Had we dipped on a note, no-one confesses.
Was it the vowel, the shape or the tone,
The attack, the volume, that mischievous groan?
She makes us hold on; no chance to complain.
Oh please, oh please let us breathe again.

The singout begins, we've taken the floor,
The audience loves it, they ask for more.
She milks the chord, but what the heck
It feels like the cord is around my neck:
The arm stays up, oh no, not again,
Then comes the relief, we can breathe again.