The Voice Poem by Paul Reed

We are all comfortable in our red high-backed chairs
Our judgement respected, which nothing impairs
We listen intently to the loud faceless voices
As we consider who shall become our choices

We sit ever tighter and stroke our reputation
We even compare notes without affectation
For straining and errors we become glutton
As we implore the others to push the red button

We think “that’s a great voice” but our seats still don’t turn
And then a shameful feeling inside starts to burn
We can hear the yearning and can hear the passion
But are our selections determined by fashion?

If we picked that person would it make us uncool?
Might young people think us old fools?
We’d better just leave that button alone
Wait for a ‘hip’ voice to woo with it’s drone

So our advice to you singers with tones magic
Avoid this pre-ordained brush with the tragic
Don’t try and adapt to be in the vogue
Signed Will.I.Am, Wilson, Jones and Minogue