#87: Don't Blame Me, My Instrument Did It (Music)

It Gets You Feelin' Somewhat Spunky,
When They Start To Stompin' Clunky,
As They Answer To Their Monkey . . .
And, You Know, Those Boys Be Dancin'!
Hey, They Might Be Pretty Punkie,
Or Maybe They're All Grime And Gunky . . .
Call Them Fakes, Or Call Them Funky . . .
But Their Trousers Gots Some Ants In.
So, Put Away That Jukebox Junkie . . .
Polish Up Your Dory-Hunky . . .
Lester Plunks, And Chester's Chunky . . .
But, You Know, Their Notes Are Trancin'!

The State of music . . . another one,
quickly revealed to us.
At first the din of total noise
made us furious.

But the symbols of some messages
were flying overhead
in talons of some eagles, to
some lofty nesting bed.

Jo and I both figured that
it wasn't poetry.
He must have guessed it was a song,
regardless, eventually . . .

one of us would get it right.
We both thought music must
be more or less a nice thing, 'til
we learned more of its lust.

The really funny thing we found,
before we left that State,
was just how much of it is done,
not for love, but hate.

It's apparently the anger at
one's looking for too long
to find a bit of self that makes
a dude break into song . . .

who's holding out a hand to grip,
and flail at wood that gets
hardened stiff, and greased and strung
with wires over frets.

And aiming at an audience,
and blowing them away . . .
hell, it ain't no love song that
those dudes are apt to play.

With thunder, guns and cannon balls,
and kettles boiled backstage . . .
we found that even symphonies
are acting out of rage.

We weren't surprised, as we began
to hear a different sound . . .
the thunder of the Voice approached
as all else settled down.

We didn't know we needed help,
but then, again, we weren't
all that sure of what we'd found,
and less of what we'd learnt.

"You boys are lucky . . . that's for sure.
I've had my eyes on you.
If I had not been watching, well . . .
who knows what it would do."

"What what would do," Jo-Mima spoke,
expressing both our thoughts.
"Are we in mortal danger of
some rocking juggernauts?"

"Danger doesn't quite describe
the threat you boys might face
if you would fail to recognize
the evil of this place.

Music, as the saying goes,
might soothe the savage breast.
The problem is, a soothing rib
don't mollify the rest.

The claws of music's hammer can
dig deep in someone's brain.
Its execution weapons seek
a throne from which to reign.

The thrones are filled with lights and sound,
and subjects genuflect
beneath their kings and queens without
the sense they should reflect.

Its hard to see, just looking on,
the power that's endowed,
not by the singer's artfulness,
but weak wills in the crowd.

So, amplifiers bursting forth
with knife-like guitar screams,
and trap-sets goring guts below
their cymbalizing dreams . . .

permit their wielders to acquire
devoted followings
from believer-wannabes that wait
in every stage's wings.

And with that adoration comes,
as to all mortal gods,
the power over hearts and minds,
as well as cones and rods.

The weak become believers, and
their revelations prove
that all to which they've sworn their souls
is worthy of that move.

And now the altar, full of stars,
begins to more fulfill
the wishes from the hearts of those
who witness what they will.

And now the altar, full of beasts,
begins, to crimson, turn,
as, soothed-of-breast, but not of heart,
they do ignite and burn . . .

each and every soul brought forth,
and laid upon the stage.
Musicians cannot help themselves.
They're instruments of rage."

The ringing of the Voice's words
just drifted off like some
percussive kind of back-beat, and
slightly audible hum.