The Drummer’s Perspective

The stage is set the lights are low
And through the doors we’re hearing
A deejay that calls out our name
And roar of the crowd cheering

And we’ll run up to play soon as
Our roadies and our tech
Can sep’rate our guitarist’s hands
From round our singer’s neck

The feud started so long ago
So far back I can’t trace
And no one can recall why it
Started in the first place

Some say it due to who would ride
Shotgun on the tour bus
While others claim a preference
For chipped ice over crushed

But wives were slept with, lawyers called
Contracts drawn up again
And tempered flared as bowls were left
With just brown M&Ms

Itch powder poured in leather pants
Fist fight in Indiana
And concealed details that would strand
Our singer in Montana

Concerts that degenerate
To nothing but feedback
Guitarist drowns the vocals out
With his Marshall stack

Then hospital bills pile up
Doctor’s would be behooved
To learn procedures where drumsticks
Are surgically removed

And though music’s a healthy way
To take out one’s aggressions
Don’t think they meant a bass guitar
Should be a deadly weapon

But that is how the story ends
With grief and with confusion
And though I mourn deep down I’m glad
There won’t be a reunion.


Maybe Not

I’m sitting in the coffee shop
And I see you
across the room
Gosh, how many years has it been?
It would be great
Just to talk
About what we’ve done with our lives
Over the years
And then I catch
My reflection in the mirror
And think oh no
Maybe not.

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