Silicon Sideman
The trouble with a drum machine
Is that it hasn’t got an ego,
Trouble with a drum machine
Is that it always keeps in time:
The fourth beat goes where the first three go,
As do the crash and click and chime.
Ev’ry beat created
Is so beautifully weighted
And it comes along precisely
When a beat’s anticipated.
Yes, some settings let it swing
(In a very predictable way),
But at its heart, it can only play
As its programming dictates –
It has no art in how it syncopates.
From the moment we press start,
It serves up static jazz and bluesless blues
At gridline rates –
And despite what the singer would choose.
It can’t insist on using toms or gates.
However loud, however smart,
It never tries to build its part,
With never a roll and never a fill –
It just keeps beating,
Beat-beat-beating,
Beating on and on until
At last the plug is pulled, the button pushed,
The damn thing overruled and hushed,
And finally each tireless brush and stick is still.
The trouble with a drum machine
From marching boys to charging pop,
Is knowing when to make a noise,
And knowing when to stop.
Rhyming Couplets 