The delicate treble falters uneasily Above the empty acres of an endless chasm Where we know some low end should be. It finally falls flat on the ears Of sharp listeners Who see the damp back of the bass player As he frantically fiddles with knobs and switches. We see a void beside flimsy cymbals In the absence of a tom tom, Hear a whole mess of hi-hats; kept open By a broken pedal, And watch the guitar player Lay down his craft and make for stage Left to help out with that finicky amp. In such circumstances, Some of us forgive the singer With the sickly figure For wrenching his head back and away From his microphone and spotlight. A switch of filter spreads the walls with red. Two shadow arms behind the amps Hammer hard against the earth. One stage right limb gets sucked Into a torso at stage left. At a rest, Three shadows Look like ageless stags caught in the gaze Of some ancient archers we are becoming. And to s how them that we love this We slap our meaty parts against each other.