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Zywa Feb 2023
The speech is followed

by silent applause, the hands --

just raise the glasses.
"Het Bureau - Het A.P. Beerta-Instituut" ("The Office - The A.P. Beerta-Institute", 1998, Han Voskuil), page 854-856

Collection "Not too bad [1974-1989]"
Grace May 2020
I don’t write to get called good
I write to be understood
Do you understand?

I don’t write for petty praise
That would be a waste of my days
My poems are my own extended hand

I just want people to see
What it’s like to be me
And who I really am

Though my poems are called “good”
I am still misunderstood
When will somebody understand?
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
by Michael R. Burch

You will never change;
you range,
investing passion in the night,
waltzing through
a blinding blue,
immaculate and fabled light.

Do not despair
or wonder where
the others of your race have fled.
They left you here
to gin and beer
and won't return till you are bled

of fantasy
and piety,
of brewing passion like champagne,
of storming through
without a clue,
but finding answers fall like rain.

They left.
You laughed,
but now you sigh
for ages,
slipping by.

You pause;
is all you hear.
You dance,
as drunkards cheer.

Keywords/Tags: dancer, waltz, waltzing, applause, drink, drunkards, neon light, strobe, flash, flashing, crystal ball, chandelier, lap dancer, exotic dancer, stripper, peeler, strip, striptease artist, burlesque, Moulin Rogue, dance, passion, champagne, gin, beer
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
The Locker
by Michael R. Burch

All the dull hollow clamor has died
and what was contained,

adulation or sentiment,
left with the pungent darkness

as remembered as the sudden light.

Originally published by The Raintown Review

These are poems about sports like baseball, basketball, boxing, football and soccer. Keywords/Tags: Sports, locker, locker room, clamor, adulation, acclaim, applause, sentiment, darkness, light, retirement, athlete, team, trophy, award, acclamation

Ali’s Song
by Michael R. Burch

They say that gold don’t tarnish. It ain’t so.
They say it has a wild, unearthly glow.
A man can be more beautiful, more wild.
I flung their medal to the river, child.
I flung their medal to the river, child.

They hung their coin around my neck; they made
my name a bridle, “called a ***** a *****.”
They say their gold is pure. I say defiled.
I flung their slave’s name to the river, child.
I flung their slave’s name to the river, child.

Ain’t got no quarrel with no Viet Cong
that never called me ******, did me wrong.
A man can’t be lukewarm, ’cause God hates mild.
I flung their notice to the river, child.
I flung their notice to the river, child.

They said, “Now here’s your bullet and your gun,
and there’s your cell: we’re waiting, you choose one.”
At first I groaned aloud, but then I smiled.
I gave their “future” to the river, child.
I gave their “future” to the river, child.

My face reflected up, more bronze than gold,
a coin God stamped in His own image—Bold.
My blood boiled like that river—strange and wild.
I died to hate in that dark river, child.
Come, be reborn in this bright river, child.

Published by Black Medina, Bashgah (Iran, in a Farsi translation), Other Voices International, Thanal Online (India), Freshet, Formal Verse, Borderless Journal, Interracial Love, and in a YouTube video by Lillian Y. Wong

Note: Cassius Clay, who converted to Islam and changed his “slave name” to Muhammad Ali, said that he threw his Olympic boxing gold medal into the Ohio River. When drafted during the Vietnamese War, Ali refused to serve, reputedly saying, “I ain't got no quarrel with those Viet Cong; no Vietnamese ever called me a ******.” I was told through the grapevine that this poem appeared in Farsi in a publication called Bashgah.

(I stole this poem
From Muhammad Ali.)
—Michael R. Burch

hey pete!
by michael r. burch

for Pete Rose

hey pete,
it's baseball season
and the sun ascends the sky,
encouraging a schoolboy’s dreams
of winter whizzing by;
go out, go out and catch it,
put it in a jar,
set it on a shelf
and then
you'll be a Superstar.

Pete Rose was my favorite baseball player as a boy; this poem is not a slam at him, but rather ironic commentary on the term “superstar.”

Baseball's immeasurable spittin’ mixed with occasional hittin’.—Michael R. Burch

Larry Seivers had golden hands
by Michael R. Burch

Larry Seivers had golden hands,
platinum hands,
diamond hands,
hands of jasper, sapphire, chalcedony, emerald, sardonyx, sardius, chrysolite, beryl, topaz, chrysoprase, jacinth and amethyst.

Other receivers were more elusive,
more physical,
flashier ...

but Larry Seivers had hands.

by Michael R. Burch

in an unplanned moment
as you rise
will teach your limbs the art of flight:
the waltz of light
through vaulted skies.

A falcon flies:
its keening cries
as sunlight fails
fall hollow to the earth below,
and you must know
how fierce the light of sunset feels.

You hear
those ringing cries, their echoes clear
though far away, and so you pause
—defying even gravity,
suspended over some vast sea—
then fall ... into applause.

Larry Legend
by Michael R. Burch

He's slow, can't jump,
looks pale and plump.
He talks too much;
he brags, and such.
He's not real nice,
has blood like ice
and will like steel
(and steal he will).
But when the game is on the line,
your team, or mine?

Big Mc Attack
by Michael R. Burch

Johnny Mc
is back—
the fierce
of words
and serves,
and taunts.

He flaunts;
he flails,
and rails.
he wails.
His ego
He grunts
and groans
and moans
and gee . . .
I think
he wants
to referee!

Johnny Mc
(thank God)
is back—
ing, fiery,
taking flack
(not hesitant
to give it back).

We love
to watch
him glare
and wince,
and since we sense
his dreams
we sit
on pins
he wins.

For Jack Nicklaus, at the 1987 Open
by Michael R. Burch

When you were young
every putt was makeable
and every dream remarkable;
the stars were unmistakable
you set your sights upon.

Then, in your youth,
time not yet a factor
and age not yet your rector,
you plotted every vector
and victory shone ahead, like truth.

But uncouth youth was fleeting ...
soon losses grew more numerous;
time's skies became more cumulus;
the nerves with age—more tremulous,
as the sun from the sky was setting, retreating.

How have you then, as sunset nears
and the world looks on with unsure eyes,
cast off the crutch of age to rise
and stand as though the butterflies
have no effect, no, nor the cheers?

I wrote this poem after Tom Watson chipped in at the 1982 US Open to defeat Jack Nicklaus. Nicklaus was getting older, but he was still competitive.

There Are Dreams
by Michael R. Burch

for Jack Nicklaus

There are dreams
that you have dreamed
that are etched into your eyes.

There are dreams
that you have dreamed
that resignation can’t disguise.

There are dreams
that you have dreamed . . .
O, I’ve dreamed them, esteemed them.

Like fire,
flares most brightly as it dies.

by Michael R. Burch

for Jimmy Connors

Pounce like a panther,
all sinew and nerve;
attack, arched in anger,
your quarry—the serve.
Imagine a moment
of glory to come
as you lunge for the path
of its flight through the sun.

Are you a Templar
like warriors of old,
forsaking your loved ones,
crusading for gold?
Or could it be
need for fame drives you on?
Do you soak up the cheers
as you dash through the sun?

As you battle those younger,
those stronger, more fleet,
still none can be fiercer,
less yielding, complete.
Oh, what drives you onward,
what makes you compete?

I think not the riches, acclaim, even love . . .
but your heart is incentive enough.

The Great GOAT Debate
by Michael R. Burch

The great GOAT debate
can no longer wait:
we MUST know who’s best, and know NOW!

Is it Jordan, Kareem,
or Hakeem the Dream?
Is it Gretzky, the Rocket, or Howe?

Is it O.J. or Brady,
or are they too shady?
Tom Burleson or Monte Towe?

But now that I’m thinking
and done with my drinking,
before I make friends with a large purple cow ...

It’s the Babe, let’s get serious!
Babe Didrikson Zaharias!
Let the Ultimate GOAT take a bow.

Mildred Ella “Babe” Didrikson Zaharias was a basketball All-American, a baseball and softball star, a professional golfer who accumulated ten major championships, and a track and field legend who won two gold medals and a silver in three different disciplines at the 1932 Olympics while setting four world records in the process. She was also an expert diver, roller-skater, bowler and billiards player. Didrikson won the 1932 AAU track and field team championships while competing as an individual, by winning five of the eight events she entered and finishing second in another. She remains the only track and field athlete, male or female, to have won individual Olympic medals in a running event (hurdles), a throwing event (javelin), and a jumping event (high jump). Despite taking up golf in her mid-twenties and having to wait until age 31 to regain her amateur status, Didrikson won 17 straight women's amateur tournaments, an unequaled feat. Altogether, she won 82 golf tournaments. She made the cut at two men’s PGA golf tournaments, the only woman to do so, and she did it sixty years before any other woman even tried. In 1934 exhibition games, after being taught the curve ball by Dizzy Dean, she pitched one scoreless inning against the Dodgers and two scoreless innings against the Indians. Didrikson still holds the world record for the longest baseball throw by a woman. The world has never seen anyone like her.

“She is beyond all belief until you see her perform ...Then you finally understand that you are looking at the most flawless section of muscle harmony, of complete mental and physical coordination, the world of sport has ever seen.” – Grantland Rice, considered by many to be the greatest sportswriter of all time

Ring-a-Ling Bling
by Michael R. Burch

The ring
is mostly bling.

Determining an individual athlete's greatness by counting championship rings (i.e., team success) makes no sense to me and seems disrespectful to all-time greats like Ernie Banks, Charles Barkley, Elgin Baylor, **** Butkus, Ty Cobb, Michelle Kwan, Karl Malone, Dan Marino, Marta (who may be the greatest female soccer player of all time), Barry Sanders, John Stockton, Fran Tarkenton and Ted Williams. Perhaps the best example is the player most cited for rings these days: Michael Jordan. In reality, Jordan didn't win a ring his first six years and was 0-6 against
the Larry Bird Celtics and lost two more playoff series to the Isiah Thomas Pistons. Were Bird and Thomas the better players, or did they simply have better teams? The answer seems obvious.
Jordan only began to win rings after he was joined by outstanding players like Scottie Pippen, Horace Grant, et al, and even then it took time for that team to jell. Jordan was a transcendentally great player before he won a ring. If he had failed to win rings because he never had good-enough teammates, would that make him a lesser player? Judging individuals by team success or failure makes no sense, unless Jordan was a lesser player for six years while his teams struggled and then he miraculously became the GOAT when more capable players showed up. Ditto for LeBron James. The first thing he does after changing teams is use his influence to get better players to join him. LeBron is not foolish enough to believe rings are won by individuals.

The Ring Thing (is entirely Bling)
by Michael R. Burch

The ring
is entirely bling.

Michael Jordan was zero-for-six
against the Larry Bird Celtics;
moreover he was twice sent home
by Isiah’s Pistons;
his ring case only began to gleam
when he had Horace, Scottie and B.J. on his team.

Thus the ring
is bling.

The Ballad of King Henry the Great
(aka Derrick Henry)
by Michael R. Burch

Long live the King!
Send him victorious,
happy and glorious,
long to reign over us:
Long live the King!

Long live the King!
Send him like Sherman tanks
Mowing down cornerbacks,
Stiff-arming tiny ants:
Long live the King!

No T.O.
by Michael R. Burch

Lines written after the aptly-named Eric Eager said, “A. J. Brown is Terrell Owens.”

I’m young, I’m big-hearted,
but I’m just getting started.

I’m running my own race
at my own **** pace.

T.O. belongs in fabled Canton town,
but I’m A. J. Brown.

The second stanza was actually written by A. J. Brown, a budding poet, and published in the form of a tweet.

Charlie Hustle
by Michael R. Burch

for Pete Rose

Crouch at the plate,
intensity itself.

Follow the flight
of the streak of white
with avid eyes
and a heartfelt urge
to let it fly.

Sweep the short arc,
feel the crack of a clean hit,
pound the earth
toward first.

Edge into the base path,
eyes relentlessly relentless.

Watch his every movement;
feel his every thought;
forget all save his feet;
see him stretch
toward the plate ...
and fly!

Fly along the basepath
churning up the dirt,
desire in your eyes.

Slide around the outstretched glove,
hear the throaty cry,
"He's safe!"
And lie in a puddle of sunlight
soaking up the cheers.

A Texas Leaguer dropping
to the left-field side of center
sends you on your way back home.

Take the turn past third
with fervor in your eyes
and a fever in your step,
the game just strides away ...
take them all and then
slide your patented head-first slide
across the guarded plate.

Pause in the dust of your desires,
loving the feel of the scalding sun
and the roar of the crowd.

Shake your head and tip your cap
toward the clouds.

Slap the dirt
from your grass-stained shirt
and head toward the clubhouse ...
just doing your job,
but loving it
because it is your life.

This was an early attempt at free verse, written in my teens.

The Sliding Rule
by Michael R. Burch

If you’re not quite kosher,
like Leo Durocher;
or if you have a Pinocchio nose,
like Peter Edward Rose;
or if your life turns tragic,
like Ervin Johnson’s magic;
or if your earthly heaven
is stopped, like Howe’s, at seven;
or if you’re a disciplinarian
like Knight, but also a contrarian;
or if like Joe you’re shoeless
because you’re also clueless;
or perhaps like Iron Mike Tyson
you work a little vice in;
or like Daly working the jackpot
you’re less unlucky than merely a crackpot;
or like Ruth you’re better at drinking
than at dieting and thinking;
or perhaps like Andre Agassi’s
your triumphs are really your tragedies . . .
though The Judge might call you a sinner,
society’ll proclaim you a WINNER!

by Michael R. Burch

Her predatory eye,
the single feral iris,

Her raptor beak,
all jagged sharp-edged ******,

Her hard talon,
clenched in pinched expectation,

Her clipped wings,
preened against reality,

Published by The Lyric, Verses Magazine, Romantics Quarterly, Journeys, The Raintown Review, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, The Fabric of a Vision, NPAC—Net Poetry and Art Competition, Poet’s Haven, Listening To The Birth Of Crystals (Anthology), Poetry Renewal, Inspirational Stories, Poetry Life & Times, MahMag (Iranian/Farsi), The Eclectic Muse

Keywords/Tags: Tremble, predator, raptor, hawk, eagle, falcon, talon, beak, wing, preen, preened, preening

Y2k: The Score
by Michael R. Burch

You should have known
when you were giving us wedgies,
pulling down our pants
in front of the cheerleaders,
playing frisbee with our slide rules . . .

that the years are exceedingly cruel.

You should have seen,
dashing across the gridiron
(as the cheerleaders screamed
in a *****-show of ecstasy),
playing the hero, the bull-necked **** . . .

the hands on the face of the unimpressed clock.

Though you were popular,
the backseat Romeo, the star
who drove the flashiest car,
though you lived out our dream
and took the prettiest girls to the dances, the prom . . .

you never had a chance.  Something was wrong.

We missed the big dances and proms
as we hissed and we schemed,
as we wrote and re-wrote our revenge
while you partied like Stonehenge.
Now your business is in debt to the hilt.
It’s too late to cry: Foul! Unsportsmanlike! Tilt!

One statement of ours and yours are all lost!
Your receivables, aging and gathering dust,
will yellow like ***** one soon-coming day.
While you were scoring, you missed this play—

Jocks: Zero. Nerds: Y2k.

Ordinary Love
by Michael R. Burch

Indescribable—our love—and still we say
with eyes averted, turning out the light,
"I love you," in the ordinary way

and tug the coverlet where once we lay,
all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white ...
indescribably in love. Or so we say.

Your hair's blonde thicket now is tangle-gray;
you turn your back; you murmur to the night,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.

Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray
to warm ourselves. We do not touch despite
a love so indescribable. We say

we're older now, that "love" has had its day.
But that which Love once countenanced, delight,
still makes you indescribable. I say,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.

Winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry contest; published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly, Mandrake Poetry Review, Carnelian, Poem Kingdom, Net Poetry and Art Competition, Famous Poets and Poems, FreeXpression, PW Review, Poetic Voices, Poetry Renewal and Poetry Life & Times
Big Virge Nov 2019
Like Most People I Like … " APPLAUSE "  
But NOT From Those Whose Conscience Gnaws ...      
Away At … " Them " … !!!!! …        
Who Do It …  
Just To Fit and Blend ...      
With Those Who LIKE …        
The Words I Write … !!!!        
So Listen Up …        
If You Don't Like My Spoken Words …      
Or Those I Write …        
Do What's Right DON'T Applaud … !!!        
TRUST ME That's FINE … !!!!!      
Don't Give FALSE Cheers …        
Let's Get THIS CLEAR … !!!      
I DON'T Believe In False Veneers …        
Cos' Those With Them Are Quick To … " SNEER " … !!!!!      
I've Seen It Done A Thousand Times … !!!!!      
This Seems To Be A … " Part of Life " …  ?      
Don't Applaud Just To Be Nice … ?!?      
Or Even WORSE To Be ...  " Polite " ... !!!!!      
Polite Can Mean A Number of Things …        
Like … TACTFUL Yes … !!!      
Which May Mean That ...  
They're NOT Impressed ...      
And Say … " NICE Things " …      
That ... WON'T Upset … !!!        
"Oh dear, that sounds like most poets !      
Those who are, yes, self-obsessed !"      
Many of Them When They Applaud …      
Are Simply This … Applauding FRAUDS … !!!!!!      
Who … HATE To See Good Poetry ...        
Cos' This Could Mean ...      
The END of Their DELUDED Dreams … !!!!!      
This … Of Course …        
Could Include … ME … ?!?      
I'm Afraid NOT ………. !!!!!!      
If Your Words Do NOT Impress …        
I'll Tell You STRAIGHT … !!!!!      
"You need to change professions mate !!!"      
But If I Like The Things You Write ... ?      
I'll Try To Quote Some of Your Lines …        
But If I Can't Don't Be Surprised … !!!      
It's Hard Enough Remembering MINE … !!!!!!!!!      
The Key Thing Is I Think You'll Find …        
I'll Give Applause …        
But NOT Like Those Mentioned Before …. !!!      
Whose FAKE Applause ... Should Be Ignored …        
Their Actions YES I Do ABHOR ... !!!      
Cos' ALL They Do Is Keep ... DUD Scores … !!!        
And Call For Those Whose Form of Prose …        
Will Stunt The Growth of Shows They Host.      
Lyrical Woes ...  
You Know They Go …      
So … TERRIBLY Low … !!!!!      
Like Those Who Clap Within A ... " Claque " ... !!!!!      
"A hired body of applauders, in a theatre"      
Like Those Who Go To … " Farrago Slams " …      
Or Probably Those That Go To … " The Cellar " …      
**** .....
Applauding FRAUDS Are EVERYWHERE Man … !!!!!      
Even …. " Unplugged " …..      
Becomes A SHAM …        
When False Applause …        
Is What's Asked For … ?!?      
Words Like Those ...  
Will ROCK Some Jaws … !!!      
And Won't Get Me …      
Inside ... " Their Clique " …        
Or Their Shows … !!!      
" Oh, What a BLOW !!!!! "  
I Guess My Prose Just Does Not Get Enough APPLAUSE …        
For Them To Give My Words … " The Call " … !!!      
EXCUSES Yes ...  
I've Heard Them ALL … !!!!!      
" Too Black !!! "      
" Too Tall !!! "      
" I'm waiting for Virgil to call at my event,  
and watch the people, I present !"  
And THIS Of Course …        
"Virge doesn't make people applaud !"    
That's NOT What Poets Are Here For … !?!      
Spoken Words Or … Other Sorts …        
Those Like Me Provoke DEEP THOUGHT …        
And DO NOT WANT CONTRIVED Applause … !!!!!      
There's Still A Few Who Share My View …        
And CLEARLY Do Have STRONG BELIEFS … !!!!      
About How Poetry SHOULD BE ….. !!!!!!!!      
Sometimes It NEEDS TO BE ANGRY ...        
And Should Reflect ... " REALITY " … !!!!!        
It Should Be Sweet And Flow With Beats ...        
That's HIP HOP ... !!!!!      
And NOW WE KNOW The Youth RESPECT …      
Poets Who ROCK … !!!      
Promoters Should WATCH …      
They Might Be SHOCKED … !!!      
Poetry NEEDS Controversy … !!!      
And This Will Bring BIG CASH Money … !!!!!      
From Simple Use of Fluent Speech … !!!      
But Let Me Guess … !?!      
They've Got The BEST … !!!      
Within The UK's Poetry Scene ….. !!!!!!      
How Can This Be … !?!      
What NO … " Big V " … !!!      
Sorry … " BIG VIRGE " ...      
A Man With TRULY Conscious Words … !!!!      
They Know It's True … !!!!      
And Yet They Choose ….      
To …................................................. Ignore Me ……      
They're Being RUDE … !!!!!      
So Words Like These Are Just To PROVE …        
I'm Watching YES They're Every Move … !!!!!      
I'm Sure They Think I'm NOT That Great … !!!      
But Listen Close They've Made Mistakes … !!!!!      
My Hearing's FINE … !!!!!      
There Have Been Times I've Heard Them Try …        
To Act As Though They Like The Way My Wordplay's Styled ...      
But Still Won't Have My Name … " Headlined " …        
If That's The Way They Are Inclined …        
It's NOT A Stress … !!!      
They Can Bring Their BEST …      
And I'll ... Take The TEST … !!!!        
Let's ...  
START The WAR … !!!      
Cos' Now I'm SORE … !!!      
And Think It's Time To … HOT UP Floors …        
And See Which Names Bring In The Hoards … !!!        
That's The Way To YES … Keep Score … !!!!!      
And STOP This Phoney …. FAKE …  
........... " Applause " ….........
Written back when I used to perform at poetry events in London, with all the Bourgeoise, Clique-Filled breeds of London's Poetry Society Fraternities. its all good though now folks, i'm not so sore anymore … !!!
annh Sep 2019
As his feet moved even faster, and he twirled and whirled and cantered across the stage, it was as if he existed in an indeterminate space - blinded by the footlights, deafened by the orchestra, absorbed in his own rumbustious choreography. Beyond the pit, in the anonymous darkness, the audience rippled and flared appreciatively in response. So he danced on until, with a final rapturous gesture of his outstretched arms, he plunged to earth as dizzy as a snowflake. And waited.

The silence shifted. The soft rumble of engine noise played softly in the background, while the chain-link fence rattled in the squall which blew fresh off the harbour. He opened his eyes and watched the cars crawling across the overbridge above him; the empty basketball court littered with yesterday’s snack papers lay in shadow. In the middle distance, a familiar figure walked briskly towards him.

‘Matthew! Matthew! You come here this secon’ or I’ll whip your **** right off, already.’
‘Yes, Auntie.’
‘What you doin’ tryna waste good time?’
‘Nothin’, Auntie.’
‘Ain’t that the truth, boy.’

As he stooped to gather up his satchel, Matthew saw out of the corner of his eye the concertmaster lower his instrument, incline his head, and begin to tap his music stand with his bow. From the balconies the first of a thousand rose petals began to fall with the evening rain, the applause thundered while the lightning clapped, and there in the gods stood his mother waving and blowing kisses at him, as he followed his aunt down East Street towards home.

‘And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.’
- Friedrich Nietzsche
Gabriella Aug 2019
Here is the thing darling, no matter how many cheer,
The world remains an empty place.
There’s an abrupt sound of palms hitting one another,
But the moment is fleeting.
The lights shut off. The curtains close.
Applauses end.
Cardboard-Jones Feb 2019
This piece speaks with subtle attitude.
Its whispers echo over the crowded gallery
Yet only I can hear.

My eyes are fixated on its delicate details,
Tracing every stroke of the brush.
My sight is paralyzed.

The colors move and swirl,
Caught in a maelstrom of creativity.
The hues melt off the canvas,
Bleed down the wall,
Pool at the bottom,
Mixing but not blending,
And all I can do is watch.

Slowly the others follow suit,
Bleeding down the walls in a patient rush,
Stretching across the floor
So desperate and calm
Until It caresses my shoe.

It climbs my leg, rising and rising,
Staining my pants and skin.
It rises and rises still,
An orchestra of color making permanent residence.
I am terrified yet my breathing is slow,
Watching the details form.

Engulfed by color I turn to see
All the masses staring at me.
Speaking to one another with subtle attitude,
Whispers echo the crowded gallery,
Their eyes fixated on the delicate details,
Tracing every line,

My fear was met with thunderous applause.
Anthony Mayfield Jul 2018
Well maybe it’s a shame in the weekend
To toil aimlessly about dreams in bed
Counting sheep only lasts for so long
And maybe it’s a shame to waste the day

Someday we’ll be alive
More than we are right now
Someday we’ll start a fight
Let’s end our show with a bow

And we’ll close it out with a round of applause
They’ll look to us
Because we’ll be their stars
Right now we’re young and we’ll never grow old
But even if we do
We stand with the bold
The Millennials' Anthem
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