The screech of the accordion;
a lacklustre, discordant hum,
eerie as the beating drum,
as final as the setting sun.
The thread of time is finely-spun,
and all round the buskers come
to hear the prophecy of one
who bellows that the race is run –
'The end is nigh! The horsemen come!'
'Repent! Recant! What have you done?'
The sands of chance through glass have run,
and still the music carries on.
The keys are worked by fingers numb,
a warning played with blackened thumbs
'Time is short, we have but none.'
'Are you proud of what you've done?'
And still the music carries on,
pressed to your chest like a loaded gun.
It rises through the panicked throng.
That lacklustre, discordant hum,
inducing dread in all who come.
As eerie as the beating drum.
Pray for release and find ye none,
the rhythm they cannot outrun.
The busker taps a hoof cloven
In time with the accordion.