A dreaded deep rumble of a snare drum
The march of little men on the rooftop
As I sat there looking out the window,
I saw them drop.

As they dived I heard them squelch
They hit the floor and spread
Into a puddle of cold blood,
I thought that was the end

There was a strike of the cymbal
One too loud to bare
I saw a flash of light too close and bright
That was a scare

There was a tree no more
I stood there watching
Through the door
The men kept coming back like a disease

I went back to the heart of the house
Snuggled up with a read
The men kept trickling down
I had to wait until they ceased

The men stopped running, reduced to a walk
Travelled down the road to a dark, dank site
It was gloomy and rank that’s where they belong
Until they come back through our faucet?


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