Sits in the dark, middle of the night.
A big portrait of black ink, a box of light.

Tapping sounds, made from 10 drum sticks.
The caller is a calling for a few magic tricks.

Up the corner, down the mighty hill.
Left a glass of water, right a chill pill.

The record went on and on as the moon shines.
Drums stopped playing right after a few lines.

The current runs from left to right and left again.
A sudden short circuit ignites a fire of pain.

The two torches are starting to burn out.
The off button is sending static out to scout.

The grounds are shaking as the ceiling is awake.
The walls came down it wasn't a mistake.

Tapping sounds came on again so randomly.
So random that the planes crashed so perfectly.

2:13 AM