Feral drummers - don't get me started...

When I was a young man I used to be found
At festivals, concerts and sessions
Where you'd hear singers kill both the fox and the hound
And do bad Louis Killen impressions
They played cheap concertinas and plywood guitars
And sang twelve-part harmonies in dark smoky bars
But even on acid and orbiting Mars
They still sounded better than drummers

For the drummers play African rhythms
They play them all day and all night
And it fair gets me goat
That with only one note
The bastards still can't get it right

Now there's drums and mirimbas and didgeridoos
And they've all got the one thing in common
They're loud and discordant, and if I could choose
I'd get in a plane and I'd bomb 'em
For everyone thinks that they're easy to play
They thump and they buzz through the night and all day
And I wish that the buggers were far, far away
In Chad or Tierra del Fuego

It's attracted the tone-deaf, the rhythmless and lame
A rag-bag of musical ferrets
The gormless, the clueless, the same prats who claim
That punk-rock has musical merits
World Music's a Good Thing, I cannot deny
And if it sounds pleasant I'll give it a try
But I'd cheerfully live till the day that I die
In a world that had no bloody drummers

(Brian Grayson 1994/The Band Played Waltzing Matilda)