Iím bathed in light, for all to see, I meet my cues, the chords, the usual trifle, The mike stand on the stage: a perfect effigy, I walk across and take it like a rifle. That stupid mike, it hates me, I suppose, It has no choice but listen to my voice. And, given half a chance, it will expose The smallest note, at which I lose my poise. Those spotlights are taking my eyesight from me, Stinging my face, they never once turn, This single projectorís all I see, How it burns! it burns, it burns!..                                                                                                
© Hans Sleurink. Translation, ?