Baron Mynd - The Little Drummer Boy
I was sat in the high-chair with beans running over my chin ..
In a sheer smattering of sauce they sat,
Cold on my skin.
And as I stared at the food before me,
My coiled hands dwelled on the soft ..
Pristine, plastic, panels of the fortress that held me aloft.
Then towering above a trail of toys; I picked up a spoon...
...gripped the maroon handle, and flayed with poise as I made a noise!
A wave of joyous rapture beamed across the front of my face ..
As with my spoon,
I conducted the imaginary drums I would play.
I craved the rhythmic ensemble, and the thrill it evoked ..
While swinging my arms wildly,
Hoping to hit a familiar note.
With no audience for the drummer boy who cautiously stared ..
Just the crescendo of the metal spoon that tore through the air.
As the cutlery clanged and crashed,
Hitting the plate with a prang ..
In the silver head of the spoon,
Reflected the face of his dad.
Its rounded scoop made daddy's eyes bulge; Cold, hard and pallid ..
And though I was too young to comprehend them fully -
The words he mouthed were barbed with malice.
Turning the spoon slightly,
I saw mom in tears that ran from her eyes ..
With those strong, sculpted, arms of my fathers clamped to her sides.
He shook her violently,
His stubby fingers raked and clenched her hair ..
And I could only watch on,
Helplessly,
As her stoic, frail, body was thrown against my chair...
The impact was followed by one rasping, loud, gasp of sound ..
As my fortress' tall, elongated, plastic structure came crashing down.
The spoon soared from my hands as I looked in awe ..
Its cold, metallic, drumroll -
The last thing I heard before my head struck the floor...
And there I lay,
In a silence that echoed this cruel, tortuous, blow ..
My red-flushed cheeks now pooled by the blood that poured from my nose.
I awoke in a hospital bed with tubes attached to my stomach ..
My father was sat at my bedside -
And I cried out in an attempt to say THAT bastard had done it...
The accident had rendered me brain-dead,
Unable to have fun, to play,
And Daddy's little drummer boy would never get to drum again.
Now, twenty years later,
I sit in a high-chair with beans running over my chin ..
In a sheer smattering of sauce they sit,
Cold on my skin.
The beans sticking to my face,
Beneath the consumate heat of the sun ..
Where I attempt to lift my spoon,
And dream of once again beating my drum...
(Baron Asked me to Drop this for him.)
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