An Ode of Sorts

Pop, Lock, Drop
To the beating drums of the Underground
We are makers of the
humping thumping sounds
Rattling upwards
through the wayward roots of trees
Through the leaves
and Carried by the breeze.
And the rhythm blows
where the pressure goes
High pressure Low
Like a storm on the Horizon
Like the mist blown from the sea
We are the music makers, so
Let it be, let it be.

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