Singing His Song

I’m singing his song.
I’ll be singing his song.
My lips are singing that song,
So why do I think this is wrong?

Yeah, my lips are singing
And the air from my lungs, like a
Sigh makes my voice start a-ringing
Why do you blame it on me?
It’s my lips, my lungs, my face,
My teacher that carry the music.

It’s not like I’m having your baby
(Besides, I’m too much of a lady).
I’m just singing that song;
Your song.

What’s the big deal?
It’s not like I’m a seal
And you’re the ringmaster.
I’m a sea lion woman
And no one can tell me otherwise
(Except Feist).

No, no, no, no, no, no!
It’s just fear;
A simple word,
A simple anagram for fare.
Food isn’t bad.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!
I’m afraid that the one moment I have
To show what I’m made of
Will just reveal
Cracked vocal chords,
Notes sung off-key,
Wobbling words,
A rushed rhythm, racing to
Finish the song,
Incompetence,
Failure,
And it’s all on purpose.

I don’t want to sing your song;
At least not well.
I don’t want to sing that song of yours;
The one you know you’d ask me to sing.
I don’t,
And I probably shouldn’t,
But I will.
If you want me to.