the band grew distant
fiction
edward w pritchard
Once we played in the band and others jostled to hear and to see.
Marching far up over the hill
the music is barely heard
look at your legs and see if you still wear the striped pants
does your head still wear the high hat?
The music was sweet while it lasted
it sinks, waves of noise that come and go
concentrate on the crunch of your feet in the gravel
struggling up over the hill
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