This is a tune made into a song by the insertion of a poem. It’s about religion but is not a critique of the religious, merely a critique of those that deny the validity of the beliefs of others. I actually like the tune – but then I would, I suppose. Hopefully the words stand on their own as a poem. They were exhibited at an event at Colchester organised by the Koestler Trust and I received solme very encouraging comments. So it would seem that some people agree with me. I know this is all a bit rough and ready but I will revise it later with much improved equipment and methodology when time permits.
I guess the tune was first put in place in the early 2000’s on the piano using at least seven fingers. The invention of the tune depended on the fact that I had broken my arm in a cycling accident in 2005 in Luxembourg and had difficulty using my left hand, so the melody line can be easily accompanied. The folk-like quality of the melody came naturally after my years on the folk scene in the late sixties as a member of the ill-fated Trunckles. If I am asked, I can only reply that that is all I know how to do!
The idea for the text was developed in skeleton around 2007 in the house we bought east of Paris. It was not until I arrived at HMP Highpoint in 2016 that the text was refined, and it was first sung in the form you hear now. At Highpoint I was accompanied on the guitar, vaguely. The guitarist found his job extremely complex and moaned continuously as did a minority of the inmates that had to bear with rehearsals. Nobody seemed to object to the sentiments, but maybe those that might have objected were unlikely to have listened to or read the words, and that is perhaps the message of the song!
The Chosen Few
They are standing in line in their temple or church
Even prostrate or perched on a pew
Though they all disagree on the absolute truth
They believe they’re the chosen few
As they say their prayers
To their unknown gods
Or some unseen spirit in the sky
They don’t understand what they don’t want to know
And they don’t ask the reason why
As they sing or they chant of an uncertain past
And reject any differing view
They speak and they act out their parts in their play
They believe they’re the chosen few
From some sacred place
By the bogus blessed
Mystics murmur, brass bells ring
They announce to the world that they choose to believe
In their prophet, messiah or king
They may stare into space or at idols of stone
Citing books that ignore all that’s new
They observe ancient rites, speak the strangest of tongues
They believe they’re the chosen few
As their hands reach up
Or each other meet
Their closed eyes obscure from their sight
All that which exists beyond reach of their minds
Yet they’re sure they have seen the light
No importance they give to their ideas or deeds
Nor to prove their opinions are true
What matters, they feel, is the force of their faith
They believe they’re the chosen few
They attempt to impose
Limits on all life
Our opinions they must reject
Despite all the rage of their ritual rants
They expect us to show them respect
But let them believe what they wish to believe
Only judge them by what they may do
If what’s done is of little harm to mankind
Let them feel they’re the chosen few
And condemn them not
For what they might think
Lest we vindicate their view
That belief is more than the opinions we hold
And that we are the chosen few