Whereas we, being adults, stand shriven of ourselves, masked now only
with images of our own choosing, having ascertained that our work
and creation is a gift for others — knowledge given freely, as speech
between men — we sing of God’s wisdom, which is what remains.
Will you too rise before the Dawn, at night’s end, turn your back on the Sun
and follow your shadow’s lead, comply only with what you know to be right, and pay no heed to the rote of others?
Our musical pamphlet — or handbill of angelic verse — is an instructional
thing to be used in part or whole and enjoyed as you become more yourselves in the throes of making your dear heart better, and the world.
The mantle of teacher falls lightly about our shoulders. Instructional stanzas —
ditties about things you already know you need to know, thoughts you’ve already had
but left unuttered, words you’ve already dreamed but chucked out in the morning
light — skip through the gates of our teeth. These words or thoughts of Man’s
meaning are free to come and go as they please, lighting dark places with their
fl ickerings. Sit still and listen, they are hiding badly so that you may seek them.
Each song we make, we bend, break, crack or blemish it, so that the Gods can
see we understand man’s striving is an insult in the face of universal perfection.
And so the world will know us in fault and in truth.
We sing of nature and everything, shooing reality into the listening ear. Nothing
is beyond the range of our instruments and singing voices. Everything is in our
song. Our declamatory instruction will show you the way to things.
Signed: The Songsters