Percussion in Trenches

Dots color the pages they hand us,

With flags and lines around,

Supposedly a beautiful melody,

But all we see and hear is sound,

Sticks of torture,

And Snares of pain,

The noises surrounding us,

Are there every single day,

Louder and louder they say,

And hold the fermatas out all the way,

The thunder of plastic heads,

Beaten with mallets of fibers,

They march around,

Like thunder clouds,

In very silly styles,

Yet everyone says they’re great,

And everyone wishes to be them,

The High School Drum Line,

Of the Marching Band,

But nobody knows who we are,

The kids with the yarn mallets,

Playing percussion and music just like them,

But without all the attention and admiration,

When we get asked what instrument we play,

No matter how loud we say,

They never know,

We can play all day,

In front with the band,

But nobody ever gives us a hand,

But soon we will say,

In a most loud and clear way,

We are the Pit!

That’s what those drum-heads will hear,

We are the Pit!

And this is our Year!!!