by Queen4aDay
He picks it up; in his hand,
The stick that looks at once so grand,
And melancholy, beaten and bruised
From all the times it has been used.
He hoists it aloft, like a blade of heroes elde,
Who went to war, armor shelled.
Its silhouette, in the sky;
A gleam of triumph, in his eye.
He starts to make a motion down
To strike the circle, below, ‘tis round.
His muscles strain, to give it force,
To make the sound his fans endorse.
The stick it swings, a wooden blur.
It makes a noise, like a whir, a purr.
The stick it strikes the drumhead scarred
From strikes like these from the same bard.
The sound that comes from the drum,
Halfway between a hollow thrum,
A gentle tap, a little rap,
And an exceedingly loud snare-driven slap.
The fans all cheer, for he has done it.
The amazing contest; he has won it.
To hit the drum at the right time,
It gives a musical pleasure quite sublime.
But suddenly, the mood is shed.
His stick through his eye, the drummer is dead.
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