by drunken prophecies, libels and dreams

THIS ONE TIME, AT CHOIR CAMP

Sopranos: *sectional rehearsal, bashing away at the upper register*

Tink: Rachmaninoff really thought sopranos were of no use. He just wants us to tweetle away! Like birds!

Fahye: I wonder if we could send him post-mortem hate mail.

Tink: Did you say 'post-autumn hate mail'?

Fahye: No! Post-mortem. How would post-autumn hate mail work?

Tink: Winter hate mail?

Fahye: !!!

~

DEAR RACHMANINOFF,

NOW IS THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT.

NO LOVE,

THE SOPRANO SECTION

~

Apologies for huge amounts of caps but NNY WHERE ARE YOU WOMAN I HAVE IT ALL FORMATTED AND READY TO POST.

*frets*