There is a collective

misguided

assumption,

that we know the words.

Singing like rusted taps,

gargling and spluttering

our way to the chorus

where enthusiasm trumps

experience,

and pipes swell and burst

so all is noise

and furious revelry.

The wave of it crests

breaks,

washes us along

to the next line.

As real as the misting

of our breaths

as we sing.

The cold is not felt

in the thick of it.