I've got this drummer in my chest,
his beat is flagrant
and abbreviated.
He plays the intro to "brown sugar"
then falls off pattern again and again.
I think his name is Miguel.
He holds the soul of a poet,
and the liver of a drunk.
With all the belligerency
of femoral artery branched close
together. Eeking out what to feel,
wondering what you think of his beats.
Whenever he thinks of you,
he bares witness,
Dropping hard of the 2 and the 4.
Pulsing hard on the floor above again and again.
'till you grab the broom and plead for quiet.
He just wants to move you to the rhythm.
To the rhythm of a good day.
The falling patter of rain
on a warm August afternoon.
It breaks the humidity
and just leaves the heat.
I'll pull no punches with you,
I'll tell you how I feel,
when I feel it.
I hope (for you) to do the same.
