Drumbeatsdirtbike

Drumbeatsdirtbike

There’s a girl, down our road, on a drum kit,

Playing, in a yet-to-be soundproofed shed.

I put the book down; listen for a bit,

All the while smilingly nodding my head.

She reminds me of when I was a kid,

With a head full of riffs and melodies.

I think about songs and the gigs we did.

Happy and melancholy memories,

Not least, the demise of our garage band,

And the consequent closure of an outlet,

For factory-floor thoughts, scribbled shorthand,

In secrecy, less the boss got upset,

Fantastically flash through my mind, as she

Plays, and my heart beats harmoniously.

The boy on a dirtbike, over the back,

Rudely interrupting my revery,

With a mindlessly, inconsiderate lack

Of rhythm, kills the beat; effectively

Putting me, somewhat abruptly, in mind

Of the time I lost control of a bike,

Got arrested, and consequently fined,

On which I decided, I didn’t like

Dirtbikes; and then I wonder whether he

(The boy) cares about little kids playing

On the field where he rides; and can he not see

The people with dogs, nor the signs saying

“No Motorbikes”?

Suffice to say, he’s won;

The drums are drowned out,

My afternoon’s done;

But I’m not angry, although he’s a pain:

Boys will be boys, or so the saying goes;

I was as bad, if not worse, in the main;

And what he’ll end up like, God only knows.

No. I’m more sad than angry, and here’s why:

It’s like for every girl on a drumkit,

There are swarms of dirtbike boys riding nigh;

And somehow, the world seems poorer for it.

Or maybe it’s me lamenting the loss

Of a golden age, that, in reality,

Is an era, that never really was;

And rose-tinted lenses are kidding me.

That being said, the next time she’s playing,

I hope the dirtbike’s broke down and staying.

See less