When to the usual man in the street the lyric
Irony of couches and cars is distant
As the comedy of know and be; the trenchant
Thunder of a field of wheat but satiric
Nonsense of sheer plodding feet; and the tragedy
Of a child’s tears but fruit for therapy:
Ah, then’s the time for singing’s celebration.
When singing’s at an end, and mystery’s gestation
Seems vanished by the winds of puerile doctrine;
When the workings of a madman are locked in
Keyless phrases and the touches of a lover
But public coin for books behind whose covers
Is the sense that sex is only groin,
Then singing must capture this in poem,
Leave nothing out; compose for all the folk;
And, grinning, disclose the ancient joke.