Drums Drums Drumming Everywhere

Another beautiful morning on the hillside and as I step out onto the porch I hear the drums, out of sight but clear as the autumn sky.

rumma tumma tum
rumma tumma tum
rumma tumma tumma tum
rumma tumma tum

Suddenly I find myself on anotherĀ hill, looking down on Boston Harbor. My hair stands on end.

Here the bastards come. Regulars, by the sound of it, with their flags and their bayonets and their close-order drills. Thousands of ’em.

I gather myself.

More’s the need to make every ball count.

I check my musket, then look up and down the line. Every man jack among us is doing the same.

Have at us, you scum of the London slums!

I watch and wait. The drums get louder, and I check my musket again.


Thank heavens Washburn High School doesn’t have a pipe band.

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