Darkness. Silence. Only the sound of rock ‘n’ rolls flitting past the window, blinking with sharps. It’s already dark, and that’s why they stick to the glass – they’re drawn to the sound. Tonight, my whole house is filled with sound. Not just any sound, but rock ‘n’ roll sound.
The more boisterous and cheeky rock ‘n’ rolls flock to the window. And when the sound in my room fades, these very rock ‘n’ rolls, instead of flying back to their nests, will enter through my open windows due to the difference in air vibrations. And that’s when the chaos begins. Rock ‘n’ rolls of various kinds will start clinging to me and biting my legs, nose, and ears. There’s no escaping them all night.
For this, I’ve prudently prepared a fly swatter, upgraded to a rock ‘n’ roll swatter. A little rock ‘n’ roll will fly up, sit on my shoulder, shake all its flats, and just as it’s about to bite me, I whack it on the nose with the rock ‘n’ roll swatter. The poor thing falls dead. The sinful rock ‘n’ roll flies off to Lennon’s kingdom. The rest scatter in all directions, fearing the same fate.
They sit in the corners and cracks until morning. And in the morning, with the sun, with the first roosters, they rise.
And all day they sing – the unidentified flying rock ‘n’ rolls.
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