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
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