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 
