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It begins as a low hum in the distance:
The undulating, ululating scream of a young
Repressed soul straining to give utterance,
Musically, to the tumultuous passions brimming
Inside him; or maybe simply the product of a
Bored student expelling the frustrations of the day
Into the mouthpiece of his instrument
In a woeful, uninspired imitation of his teacher.
Then suddenly, there are two, then three,
Each playing just milliseconds
Short of unison, and falling just short
Of being in key. It's a wonder how their
Musicality does not impose
Itself on the pandemonium;
Is it, after all, the instrument,
Or is it the man, that makes sound music?
A few more steps and the full intensity
Of the depraved orchestra is exposed
To the innocent ear: there are seven
Cackling devils blowing hellfire
Into the mouthpieces of their bagpipes,
And each infernal strain is multiplied sevenfold
To ring and beat within the heart
And remind the mortal of his inevitable sins.
Run and escape! The abhorrent sound
Watches you rush down the staircase and out
Of the building as you leave it behind to fade away.