Choirgirl

Friday night is for rehearsal sac in air, before it breaks— breath out into the soft dew itching palms on our head. Soon the baritones will arrive stuffing music with tonic notes for me to ride: the terrors of solmization & unbridled pitch sounds. Boys says Sunday without your mezzo-sopranos is like a metaphor of plus-nine terrors —pounded noise cooked in a lour supper. But the pontiff won't heed. Please sing alongside with me, the Lord's song is becoming pitching and modulating rock and pop touring on one voice. Excel Chinagorom Michael