We went to a ball, but they said we could not dance.

We joined a choir, but they said we could not sing.

We ordered a beer, but they said we could not drink.

We shared an embrace, but they said we could not love.

We went to the bathroom, but they said we could not wash.

We sat in a restaurant, but they said we could not eat.

We took out our pens, but they said we could not write.

We put up our hands, but they said we could not speak.

We went on a march, but they said we could not pass.

We sat on a bench, but they said we could not stay.

We told a joke, but they said we could not laugh.

We grieved for our friends, but they said we could not cry.

At every turn they took our name, address and age,

And then they put a bracelet on our wrist;

But when we went to vote, they said we don’t exist.