"Get all . . . " A star in red velvet squealed. She flipped her beaded braids like Marilyn Monroe.
" . . . excited. Tell all . . . " A chubby-cheeked boy behind her grabbed the mike.
" . . . about it. Jesus . . . " A slender soloist in a three-piece suit leaned back and belted, his mouth an O wide enough to fit a Big Mac.
" . . . Christ is born." They shouted the last line together. (Except for a beauty in pink leather skirt who missed her cue––hands on hips, striking runway poses.) No one agreed on the tune.
I shook with laughter. And grieved my own lost innocence.