Drummer Boy

This old drummer can't keep the beat anymore. I have no home to call my own, my beliefs have become international folklore. There's my sister, she's lost to the myth of dreams, while my brother loves those flowers that make him scream and see the shadows that blink, and the trees that speak. I'm not much for being in the spotlight, especially when it's being produced by a mushroom cloud. Why does death have to be so loud? There's not much left of my beats. They've been broken in half, splintered at the soles of marching feet. This old dog's just shit out of luck.