What a crude instrument
this calligraphy is.
Give me some drumsticks
and let me paradiddle my sins
into a innocent snare.
It's probably for the best
that my parents never got me
a drum kit when I was a kid.
Rolling hat hits pulsing
as the kick concusses
cluster-bombs of penance through the air.
I would've punctured their skins;
then my drums would've been broken
and I would be left with my sticks.
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