Six, Seven, Hit

Left Left Left to the tap of the rim one step, curl the toes, The drum major swings her hands we step like she tells us five-four time, then four-four, three-four, back to four-four, my fingers are like icicles, the thin little white cloves cut at the finger tips, it's a woodwind thing, the heavy rain soaks through my blue pants, drips from my visor into my eyes' I fell it pooling on the indent of my big hat, I nearly miss a step, stumbling in the mud, pasted to my preppy black shoes, my nose runs from the cold, so does everyone else's, I look forward to a fifty-cent cup of hot chocolate, my poncho sticks to my leg, the drum major halts us, I breath heavily, watching mist float away into the clouds, the audience cheers, we march of the field, my clarinet warm and steaming, still Left Left Left Left