1. Immoral, impossible, God only knows how tenors and basses, sopranos, altos at service on Sunday are rarely the same as those who on Thursday to choir practice came. 2. Unready, unable to sight-read the notes, nor counting, nor blending, they tighten their throats. The descant so piercing is soaring above a melody only a mother could love. 3. They have a director, but no one knows why; no one in the choir deigns to turn him an eye. It's clear by his flailing, he wants them to look, but each singer stands there with nose in the book. 4. Despite the offences, the music rings out. The folks in the pews are enraptured, no doubt. Their faces are blissful, their thoughts appear deep, but this is no wonder, for they are asleep.