The Drosselmeyer Pit

[tactheantidog]

A line gathers outside the Drosselmeyer Pit
Where endangered idealists come to moan and spit
Hold off a bit-
I think the answer has come
By a prick of my thumb,
My body's growing numb

The man who'd vote for us steps into the hole
And the hellish turf melts through his rubber sole
The drums roll-
This is not what we'd planned
He stoops down and
The turf burns through his hand

Eyes flash back as the wind hits the embers
The man lingers like the cruelest of Decembers
Who remembers
A crowd more sworn to belief?
He pulls his hand like a thief
But it finds no relief

“Your day has come, my brethren of the line!”
He shrieks as he runs like a chill through my spine
A noose of twine,
A mortal coil,
They wind around the oil-
Stained infernal soil

The man's bubbling hand falls off as he runs
And with a sizzling whine it wheezes, “My sons,
Stick to your guns!
This pile of grit
Is my biggest hit!
Your dreams await you in it!”

And so one by one, and second by second,
The people followed where the hand beckoned
Who'd have reckoned
They'd go without a sound,
Sure their peace would be found
In the grumbling ground?