Gentle rain on my tin porch roof
Thunder growling across the darkling sky
Lightening flashes crashing ears that hear
Whether it’s the weather beating their drums
Or the magic of sticks chopping motion making
An unidentified drummer’s flying discs beat air.
A pair of such metallic shapes kissing
Mouth to mouth resuscitate a memory
Of smoky soft shoe shuffling coolness
At that jazzy scale and tempo
Or boiling blood heated by the tingling
Of the many minute minglings
On the dancing gypsy’s wooden ring
Or at their greatest size
Slammed by hand to yell war
In crowded theaters of Astroturf
Suffering from its celebration
By big brass bands, marching as if to.
If you like your wave lengths long
Change the symbol for the cymbal to the gong
Roger Waters aims at the heart of the sun
Another sweaty J. Arthur Rank wank onset
Suggesting curiosities about inscrutability
Of exotic eastern uses for the high hat —
Cooking pad thai in it one way, it’s a wok
The other, on coolies smackin’ track,
It was hat, imagine that.
Brushes aren’t the only metal
That makes the cymbals sing
When his sword strikes orc shield
Gandalf is the lord of the reverberating ring.
Should that shield be slung,
A horizontal Frisbee guillotine’ll
Cut a headless swath among
Who failed to identify those flying objects
Fantastic millennia before they came in peace.
Upturned to the gentle rain, it is a bath for birds
A respite from foraging furrows in the field
Plowed parallel by such discs strung on a shaft
To raise food to fry in a wok
To eat from a bowl
With chop sticks.