A few of them, sometimes, choose record number 9,
Or sometimes number 12,
And once in a while someone likes selection 5,
But the voice they really crave, all of them, every
where and always, from the hour the doors open
until the hour they close,
Repeated and repeated like a beating human heart,
Echoing in the walls, the ceiling, shaking the tables, the
chairs, the floor
OVER AND OVER, IT IS SELECTION NUMBER 8
Whispered and chuckling, as though it arose from the
bottom of the earth,
Or sometimes exploding like thunder in the room,
Not quite a curse and not exactly a prayer,
Eternally the same, but different, different, different
every time
THE WORDS OF NUMBER 8, THE MELODY OF NUMBER 8,
THE SOUL OF NUMBER 8
Saying the simple thing they cannot say themselves,
Again and again, voicing the secret that they must
reveal, and can never tell enough,
Yet it never quite gets told
Sometimes number 9, or 12,
Or 5
BUT ALWAYS NUMBER 8, AND ONCE AGAIN NUMBER 8,
ALWAYS, TIME AFTER TIME, JUST ONCE MORE NUMBER
8..8..8..
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