Swung

All those who are patrons of music, this is for you guys.

Swung

I am. One little drummer playing to his own tune.

One little chord of dissent

jumping up and down, out of time with the rests and pauses,

one little note hopping on and off the beat,

EmPhAsIzInG EaCh WoRd A liTtLe DifFeReNt.

I ignore the score they try and make me play,

I write my own lead sheet, and improvise my own lyrics,

just to keep 'em guessing.

But to be fair I leave them clues, I write them notes that form

blues riffs,

and ragtime runs,

a staircase of paper music that collapses when they try and jam it into their 4/4 C+ prison.

I am. One little drummer, playing to his own stumblingly syncopated tune,

but,

I am. small and quiet next to the crashing, crushing crescendoes of an orchestral armada,

they try and stuff me into their dusty, joyless, four-beat, straight-laced, symphonic cell block,

they've made a musical morgue, frozen in time,

moving so fast it's run out of time, time metronoming tick-tocking tick-tock, tic-,

and then suddenly we have no time 5/4 or 6/8, no time for

swung bars or pushed notes.

A jazz-free jail, a classical closed door that has thrown away the C#- key to it's own cell

but,

No jarring, geometrical sheet music

is going to stop me from cake walking my way through life.

I've stopped paying the piper, and started to write my own songs,

I am. One little drummer

playing to his own tune.