Who’ll hear, a bitter tale for the tails
About the two drummers who are set,
To beat their palms upon the drum,
To free a sound their hands can’t catch,
And to struggle that the horn be split?

The sound’s a dirge filled with grieve
That all ears shall hear when it flies.
But many will take it for a true dance;
They will dance and spill their bloods,
And mix it with the naïve thirsty sand
Often hungry not tired of looking dry.
They’ll dance to dazzle the drummers
Who have fled the drum into cozy hides,
Who have made the dancers their ears,
Who deafened their ears from the voices
Of both the dancers and their own beat.
They will dance to dazzle the drummers,
And sweat and cry more tears of fuel
As drops upon a soft blazing inferno.

They will dance till the sound is dead,
When they’ve grown weak and numb,
At the sight of the arsons and the piles,
Of bodies and parts, waiting to be kept
In the belly of the gargantuan ground,
By the drummers who are now priest
Who’ll say: “weep not, for they’ve R.I.P.”

But they still won’t stop crying alone
At seeing black yesterday jump into today,
Holding pity pictures of dancers after action
To pinch their minds and cause real-weeps;
Asking them why they all had to dance
Even when they didn’t bang the drum.