Done To A Turn

My dad took the time to teach me everything he knew about the drums.
In truth, looking back on it, after a lifetime of smackin’ ‘em like I meant it -and gettin’ away with it- receiving kudos for it, knowing it, livin’ it... he didn’t know shit, as in he didn’t know jack. Flams? Buddy Rich? Parade rolls? Parade rest? Oom pah pah? Oom pah pah? Rumpadiddle rumpadiddle? Fucking diddly in the big scheme... but that tall man gave me what he had, even when I questioned.
“Buddy Rich didn’t set up like that!” he said when walking down the hall, spying me strokin' 'em like a Monkee, Mickey Dolenz.
“But three years and sinkin' into it?!" saith I? I shrunk as he was a monument and I but a piss stain.
Save for anything his incalculating prod proved to be meat pie. His message carried the gift in which it was intended.
What else can you ask, might I?
What little he gave, tall man gave big. I took it, I swallowed it, I shit it, I walked it, and then I done talked it, and I ain’t about near ‘nuff done. Fuck no!
Watch it, pilgrims.
Tall man spake. Speak it nevermore. Listen then.