The pied piper leads a merry dance,
compelling gaity and painted smiles;
canned laughter pops open like beer,
frothing over the dancing throng.
Weaving through the sombre parade,
out of key and out of place,
piercing tunes enough to wake the dead,
shopping mall muzak in the funeral chapel:
We played the flute for you, but you did not dance;
we wailed, but you did not mourn.
Still you don’t get it.
Turn down the dial and listen …