Under that good old fashioned title from 1662 comes an item from the internet, that ethereal place where one finds more surfers than on the beaches in Australia.
IMMORAL, IMPOSSIBLE, GOD ONLY KNOWS. (Tune: St. Denio)
1 Immoral, impossible, God only knows,
How tenors and basses, sopranos, altos,
At service on Sunday are rarely the same,
As those who on Thursday to choir practice came.
2 Unready, unable to sight-read the notes,
Nor counting, nor blending they tighten their throats,
The descant so piercing is soaring above,
The melody only a mother could love.
Nor counting, nor blending they tighten their throats,
The descant so piercing is soaring above,
The melody only a mother could love.
3. They have a director but no-one knows why,
No-one in the choir deigns to turn him an eye,
It's clear by his waving, he wants them to look,
But each of them stands with his nose in the book.
No-
It's clear by his waving, he wants them to look,
But each of them stands with his nose in the book.
4. Despite the offences, the music rings out,
The Folks in the pews are enraptured, no doubt,
Their faces are blissful, their thoughts are so deep,
But it is no wonder, for they are asleep.
Their faces are blissful, their thoughts are so deep,
But it is no wonder, for they are asleep.
Anon
Plus a local verse (from John) to put the record straight:
5. And yet in St Mary’s this isn’t the scene,
Though now few in numbers, our Choir are all keen.
Though now few in numbers, our Choir are all keen.
The worshippers – lively – all sing, they don’t sleep,
And if you can join us, our Choir we will keep!
