War Song

The drums beat, the guitars scream

The kayambas rustle, the growl

Of the discordant singers

Screech on ears

Of the awed listeners

And the music goes on.

They have heard the butter-soft music

When the soft patter on the drum

Rose to fever pitch until it split dramatically

When the sweet strum of the guitar

Rebelled into a rascal of a jabbering chatterbox

When the hum of singers climbed steadily

And became frothing flowing river of debris

Charging, agitating, wrecking havoc

We the listeners of this dilapidated music

Demand our sanity

You whisked away, roughed up and killed

Leaving us the unproud owners of these jagged skulls

And sunken eyes we are today

C) Lorot Salem 2010