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Sound of the Beast
I sit alone, through a dark tonight,
In a van riding east.
I glance to the bass on the screen of a beast.
His rhyming; sharp as swords,
His tongue is black and bold,
And his treble brought to me by chords.
I hold unto him with a single hand
And keep in mind the song, album, band.
I keep tempo in the dark with his drum,
His vocals synchronizing;
Lightning.
This player leap’d to me like spotted doe.
White, dangerous teeth:
His 16 gigabyte, ruthless blow
Through earphones. He’s rich in static,
And always, forever, climatic.
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