Every morning he drives

To the same market in

His polished Ram Truck

What does it

mean,

man?

Are you Sirius,

Sir?

Rama Rama

Every night she dreams

The same dreams

Of rhythms played on

The same foreign drums

Cascading harmonies and 

Melodies that she is 

Hard pressed to replicate

From memory

With her dim waking

Awareness

He has no clue about

What all the scattered

 Clues could possibly mean

Drama Drama

Here Ye Here Ye

The judge enters the

Courtroom right on cue

Adorned in his robe of black

Ready to condemn

Them

For no

Thing