March On

Over dried grass we tread during summer

In tune to the tap-taps of the drummer

Our faces sweating beneath the hot sun

Our feet marching on the grass one by one

We are almost at the end of the song

But the director yells at us, “That’s wrong!”

He can see that our steps are just way off

Our contempt for him we express with scoffs

We must perfect our sloppy traversing

Or we’ll be stuck here until the evening

We are forced to start all over again

“This time,” he yells, “do it without complain!”

And so we arrange ourselves for Set Two

And we hope we can try to march this through