All God's children got a place in the choir.
Some like show, and some are shier.
They sing out loud with an aim to inspire
All those who clasp their hands, and pause
To hear good things they ought now.

Each soprano's got a place in the choir.
Let them go, they'll take a flier.
A descant proud (should the chorus require)
Will surely bring them grand hurrahs
And ev'rything they sought now.

Ev'ry alto's got a place in the choir.
Tones mellow I must admire.
Without their voices, songs could be drier
Than all the Dead Sea sands, crab claws,
Or deserts that are hot now.

Ev'ry tenor's got a place in the choir.
They may glow, or burst in fire.
When to high tones they so often aspire,
They strain their nasal glands and jaws,
Falsetto-ing for naught now.

I almost forgot the bass in the choir.
Striving low, their sound is dire.
A chesty crowd, they can shake the church spire,
Loft pews and music stands, because
Of resonance, it's thought now.

Soloists - a lot to replace in the choir,
When they blow, or just retire.
New voice endowed leader hastes to acquire,
With talent that commands applause
For ev'ry solo spot now.

Organist - a slot that graces the choir,
Guides the flow (lest some expire);
Is never cowed by a horn, flute or lyre,
Handbells or concert bands, orch'stras
Or any strings they've brought now.

[Pardon]

How I hope I've not lost face in the choir,
Stumbling so, a bumbling liar.
Come sing my words or whate'er you desire,
Replacing crappy pans, faux-pas
For which I vainly fought now.

[Envoi]

'Though I'll be distraught, leave space in the choir,
One thing know: I shall conspire
From mingling crowds, fawning belles to admire,
And humming, zap the blands and blahs
By which I may be caught now.