Oh, quadrilateral room of percussion glory,
Your mysteries are so cleverly concealed.
I have yet to find the source
Of the stench of 1,000 percussionists past.
Your water-stained ceiling tiles hold secrets
Of mischievous excursions and adventures in the night.
Your drawers are constantly cluttered, and your
Shelves are a shave too short to support
The drums which have resided there
Since our band came to be.
Random rubbish crowds your smelly corners,
And rotten food lurks beneath squeaky shelves.
Your atmosphere is unappealing,
Your missing door stops none from stealing.
Books Read: 19
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