Grating,
Saying
You cannot be too much
Of drum if you can't be
Beaten to a pulp by a stick held
By a slave in her high heels and
Million-dollar shirt.
I wouldn't even mind if
You were tripping all allong the
Dated page but no, you were
On nothing more than like
A glorified calendar to reckon
Seconds.
I am not at ease; I need
Finality and a noose to
Kill something not me and live
With what would remain;
I'm guessing a black square on a
White foreground.