The pachyderms looking bored
Swishing the palm leaves listlessly
Swatting flies or
Trying to wake the mahout, I wonder
The drummers frustrations
Find a crescendo on the Drums
The trumpeters
Mock the drummers
The cymbal crashers
Punctuate the drum beats
The dark taut bodies
Sweat streaming down in rivulets
The tempo picks up
The players make faces
Taunting each other
Percussionists taunting the flutists
My ears can no longer hear
I look back at the wise pachyderms
The Lord sits benign on their vast foreheads
Now I know why they become rogues.
Now I know why they become rogues.
