OH HARK 30
In indignation, the drummer started beating the drum.
Of waking the world to injustice this was a potent medium.
Behind the trees he stealthily hustled.
Which with the hiss and sound of nocturnal creatures bustled.
"But at my back a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones and chuckle spread from ear to ear."
"Of reciting poetry this is hardly the time
Don't tell me you are conniving with the crime?"
The drummer admonished the poet in aggrieved tones
Almost tripping over the pointed stones.
"It is time to escape from here
Otherwise we too will be killed, hear , oh hear".
"Seize the day," the poet raised a determined fist.
"To cure you of your ailments , you need a musical therapist."
In the ear of the drummer he whispered with a smirk.
Unaware of the dangers that in every crevice did lurk.
Over a slope , under a tree, sat a sow in its dotage.
Its thoughts hovering around an idyllic age.
When it luxuriated , in the slush richly mired.
Now , alas it slouched under the gnarled tree, so tired.
A lackadaisical eye, towards the duo it raised
The other eye was in a dreamy haze.
Watched by half an eye of this ancient sow
Together they tried to escape from the foe.
Hand in hand they descended the slope
Clinging desperately to fragile hope.
They had to get out fast, come hell or high water.
On wobbly legs the drummer, now and then did totter.
"Cut me some slack, let me walk on my own".
The poet rasped,ignoring the drummer's moan.
With these words, he flung away the drummer's hand.
The crickets chirped, adding their mite to the jungle band.
The trees had a ghostly air,with fear the drummer choked.
Was he about to die in this jungle wild ,a frog croaked.
With perspiration soaked , his heart beat fast.
He wondered , whether on this earth was this his day last.
He grabbed a branch with a desperate lunge.
In the ravine was he about to plunge?
A piece of vine caught the poet's foot .
His ankle twisted with pain acute .
For a foothold he fumbled ,when forward he tumbled.
Behind him the drummer and his drum stumbled.
A blood curdling scream rent the air.
The trees hissed "fair is foul and foul is fair."
"They are guilty beyond a reasonable doubt."
Behind them the trees resounded with this verdict stout.
In the shadows, the poet spied the silhouette of a man.
With a rush of adrenalin towards the man he ran.
In one hand the man held a javelin, the other was on his chin.
The poet frantically shouted, trying to be heard above the din.
In the direction of the ravine he pointed a shaking finger .
The javelin man headed towards the ravine, and there did linger.
An owl hooted, jerked by a cold blast of ho hum.
"The drummer is dead , long live the drum."
Said the javelin man with a crushing finality.
His voice laced with intense gravity.
Then he grounded the javelin and picked up the drum.
"What if the drummer is dead, I will now beat the drum."
Said he, his face set in lines of intense determination
Leaving no room for vacuous speculation.
Of waking the world to injustice this was a potent medium.
Behind the trees he stealthily hustled.
Which with the hiss and sound of nocturnal creatures bustled.
"But at my back a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones and chuckle spread from ear to ear."
"Of reciting poetry this is hardly the time
Don't tell me you are conniving with the crime?"
The drummer admonished the poet in aggrieved tones
Almost tripping over the pointed stones.
"It is time to escape from here
Otherwise we too will be killed, hear , oh hear".
"Seize the day," the poet raised a determined fist.
"To cure you of your ailments , you need a musical therapist."
In the ear of the drummer he whispered with a smirk.
Unaware of the dangers that in every crevice did lurk.
Over a slope , under a tree, sat a sow in its dotage.
Its thoughts hovering around an idyllic age.
When it luxuriated , in the slush richly mired.
Now , alas it slouched under the gnarled tree, so tired.
A lackadaisical eye, towards the duo it raised
The other eye was in a dreamy haze.
Watched by half an eye of this ancient sow
Together they tried to escape from the foe.
Hand in hand they descended the slope
Clinging desperately to fragile hope.
They had to get out fast, come hell or high water.
On wobbly legs the drummer, now and then did totter.
"Cut me some slack, let me walk on my own".
The poet rasped,ignoring the drummer's moan.
With these words, he flung away the drummer's hand.
The crickets chirped, adding their mite to the jungle band.
The trees had a ghostly air,with fear the drummer choked.
Was he about to die in this jungle wild ,a frog croaked.
With perspiration soaked , his heart beat fast.
He wondered , whether on this earth was this his day last.
He grabbed a branch with a desperate lunge.
In the ravine was he about to plunge?
A piece of vine caught the poet's foot .
His ankle twisted with pain acute .
For a foothold he fumbled ,when forward he tumbled.
Behind him the drummer and his drum stumbled.
A blood curdling scream rent the air.
The trees hissed "fair is foul and foul is fair."
"They are guilty beyond a reasonable doubt."
Behind them the trees resounded with this verdict stout.
In the shadows, the poet spied the silhouette of a man.
With a rush of adrenalin towards the man he ran.
In one hand the man held a javelin, the other was on his chin.
The poet frantically shouted, trying to be heard above the din.
In the direction of the ravine he pointed a shaking finger .
The javelin man headed towards the ravine, and there did linger.
An owl hooted, jerked by a cold blast of ho hum.
"The drummer is dead , long live the drum."
Said the javelin man with a crushing finality.
His voice laced with intense gravity.
Then he grounded the javelin and picked up the drum.
"What if the drummer is dead, I will now beat the drum."
Said he, his face set in lines of intense determination
Leaving no room for vacuous speculation.
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