I am the Drummer

I am the Drummer
I make my own beat
With its own sort of rhythm
As I march down the street.

And I am the Marcher,
I walk my own street.
Its name is my name;
Its sound is my beat.


I am the Drummer,
I create my own beat:
Sometimes slow and muddled,
Sometimes quick and neat.

Sometimes with one hand,
Sometimes with three,
And sometimes it's more like
The drum's playing me.


I am the Marcher,
This is my street:
It's got cafés on side-walks
Where cool people eat.

It merges and junctions
With other streets often,
Their own drummers drumming,
Some soft and some rockin'.


But I am the Drummer
On the street that I'm strolling,
And marching and dancing,
Running, patrolling.

Sometimes I'm also
The emcee and the band,
And sometimes it's just me,
My drum, and my hand.


Those times when my marching
And drumming don't match,
Mains break and gas leaks
And sewers collapse.

Potholes and black ice,
Frost heaves and wash-outs.
But my road continues
So long as my drum shouts.


I am the Marcher;
This is my street.
I make my own route,
And I plant my own feet.

The scenery varies:
City, shore, town,
Sometimes there's none,
Not even barren ground.


No street is forever,
The drum ceases, my friend.
The Marcher stops marching
When he hits a dead end.

But my beat echoes on,
Through alleys and closes
And tells other Drummers
What an ill rhythmed, sweet beated, foot stompin', hard rockin', hard mockin', throw-your-head-back-and-cheer-in-the-streets shockin' life lived at the tip of your nose is!