By PAUL BLANK
Was sitting around one morn.
Procrastination was the norm.
Had heard the new Swans,
So I sought more élan
When I saw Metallica had new form.
“Lords of Summer” the name
I encountered in time.
A seasonal title
That connotes the sublime.
But what I heard next
I so did detest
Had no other choice
But to put it to rhyme.
Hetfield sounded like a parrot,
His and Hammett’s guitars were phoned in.
But Ulrich’s drums
Those damn “dum-dum-dums”
Were their own special devious din.
With every single
Compressed-to-death prick
Of his wretched bass drum
Came a loud, jarring “click”
That soured my mood
And made me start to brood,
“Were they trying to turn on
A stove in the booth?”
Or clicking their jaws
Or attempting applause
Some justification
For such massive flaws.
That a band that’s around
For 30-plus years
Can’t find a producer
With functioning ears.
Now, I actually liked Death Magnetic,
Thought Lulu was, yes, quite pathetic.
But it had its charms
Unlike this track that harms
Me enough to want to chug antiseptic
And the rolls, the rolls, the rooooooooolls
When in double time, you hear the screaming souls
Of sound engineers
Cupping their ears
Writhing in pain,
Holding back their tears.
I bought new headphones last month
But threw them away today.
If they couldn’t stop
Lars’ heinous bop
The hundreds I spent were a waste.
In fact, think I’ll just go quit music.
I’m tired of taking the piss.
Knowing in the abyss
“Lords of Summer” exists,
I might take up gardening
Surely there holds some bliss.
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