Monkey
Business
By Brandon Palzkill
The monkey keeps banging his cymbals
In the heart of the village bazaar.
Clashing echoes, ringing through the square,
All day, every day; rain or shine.
He pounds a clanging rhythm
To the organ grinder’s opus
‘til his paws begin to tremble
And the cymbals are as lead.
Tired, weak… desperate to set them down,
yet spectators pay him no notice.
There for a show; why would they notice?
It would spoil their entertainment…
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