Eulogy

The strains of the song urge us onward,
We stand at physical attention,
Mouthing syllables like in phonetic class,
Majulah is a self-forged manacle-
The cacophony of a nonchalance too painful to bear.
This is my institution. But we are- what? I had forgot.
History is not my forte, nay, that is six feet under,
Where all the sam suis and coolies have gone
And the spit of the merlion washes away.

You want a story?
I give you half a flag pole and one minute of silence.

The flag hangs limp, as if ashamed.