Song of the Day
By Patrick Mulvihill
Behind unassuming consonance lies a sonic attack
Like a synthetic skin stretched over an ancient shame
We see only the polished, spit-shined mask
And forget that, underneath, the skeleton still remains
A twin octave sound, a machine-man’s voice
Whispers seduction through binary code
He pleads innocence but he’s left us with no choice
None can outrun the omnipresent soundtrack he so carelessly wrote
Perpetually bound by chains of saw waves,
Abrasive mouths that chew on our warm sanctums,
A reverberating nightmare that we cautiously obey.
March with me: four beats, four chords.
The brash mouths demonize you
If you dare to ask for more.
Sing with me: one tune, one law.
Behind the guise of carefree smiles,
The wasp’s drone permeates us all.
Clock in with me, you cynic, and we will shape your mind,
Strip you of your diction, your poetry, and pride
Fine tune you to perfection, hold your hand and pray
Sweet papier-mâché, you’ll become our Song of the Day.