Concerted Struggle

CONCERTED STRUGGLE Armed only with a thin baton to juggle He faces an orchestrated struggle Looks at the plan on the rostrum Begins under breath with patrem-nostrum Then a thousand tadpoles on telephone wires Hundreds of blackbirds on barred barriers Dozens of clothes-pegs on washing lines He lunges into his defence designs Fencing with the imaginary opponent mass Stabbing viciously at the brass Windshield wiper action for the string-strums Thrust and parry over towards the kettle drums Dizzy from the many-headed enemy Hair is shaking, face is twitching - there’s too many The noises continually blaring Screeching, wailing, twanging, scaring He finally concedes, stops the fight, And they too give up the struggle for the night After this cacophonous riot There’s a little peace and quiet