Constant Singing

Be constant in your singing to please the wraiths and spirits,
In your rhythm we have a point to peace, a point to theorise.

The conception of solid thoughts and propositions appeals to my mind,
They are rude, obvious in spirit, too impolite and being blind.

The prison is a collection of an assembly, of men and tools,
Believers in distrust, ungrateful obese men in various schools.

Barred from view is the singer, the prophetess who chants a symbolic one,
A useful musical note or two, from the very heart of a messenger whom is spun.

The bank of thoughts resides in the museum of laughter and escape,
You win a sound melody, only to be abused and irritated like an ape.

Let your song continue in ways of spirits and sprites which mildly occupy
The air and voice of a thousand singers in unison, in total nature to dry.