Fronting for decaying videotapes And clocks that will never again chime the time Through tinny mechanical syncopation A drum set reposes without percussion
An arpeggio of silent despair Whose cymbals and snare impatiently wait As do the bass and other impedimenta For the hand of a youth who has something to howl
The next kid through the door might bell the cat: “There it is – I will rhythm the truth with that!”