There’s not many in tonight

After last week’s polar vortex, a week of thaw.

But it cools again.

A song from Toast of London captures the mood:

Here is an interpretive quandary. Does the song go like this?

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

There is a chill within the air,
The still of the night;
The stalls and theatre, bare:
There’s not many in tonight.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Or like this?

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

There is a chill within the air,
The still of the night;
The stalls and theatre bear [witness],
“There’s not many in tonight.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

I ponder this, mustachioed, during bouts of sleeplessness.

January’s poem

I used to post poetry during my first year or two of blogging. I’d like to try again. However, I don’t know very many poems; I might exhaust my supply after a few entries.

This month’s selection is by Matt Berry of Toast of London.

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All men somehow pay for love
While this world turns under stars above
It’s unfair how fingers point and blame
Now I hang my head in fear and shame

Who am I to cast a stone?
I’ve enough dark demons of my own
Just a pawn in a very complex game
Now I hang my head in fear and shame

How I hang my head in fear and shame
Yes, I hang my head in fear and shame

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

I think it’s very moving.

Jasper and Ziva sing: “Now we hang our heads in fur and shame.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

A philosophic bonus: “The Genesis of Shame.”