Yes! I Found It! The Perfect Snare Tone!
As a vagrant wanderer in a desert of dry bones. As the philosopher without a question. As the teacher without a pupil. As the male hedgehog without a crank. I have found myself wanting. Languishing. Waiting for the day that some hero would rescue me, his fair maiden, from my tower of barrenness. From my eternal thirst. Someone to sate my hunger and fill the void within me forevermore. Well no more! Cry joy and let slip the dogs of bacchanalia, my friends, for it is the year of jubilee. Finally, after a lifetime of searching, I have found the perfect snare tone, and its name is Uncreation.
Like a swarm of angry hornets entrapped within an old tin can, that drum ping ping pings its way into my heart, its metallic, ferrous tone entwining its own beat with that of my yearning heart. O, my buzzing, furious vespidae, sting my soul with your tinny, piercing tone, and let me fall deeper into love’s anaphylcatic shock. Carry me away upon your gossamer wings to the elysian fields of trash cans and stabby yellow-jackets, that I may drink deeply of your snarey nectar that drips from your surely broken carapace like ambrosia forevermore.
O, my Lernean paramour, rend me asunder with your cacophonous blast beats and your pernicious paradiddles, that I might be consumed by your ravenous affection and diffuse throughout your many-headed spite as the very blood of your blood. Split me in twain and grind my bones with your sweet crack crack crack, my beautiful murderess, that I might be born anew as an extension of your essence. To go without that sweet snare is to want, to hunger, to despair without end. Let me die here, crucified upon the probably punctured and warped shell of your percussive love.
Impart upon me your forbidden knowledge, O noisome nymph of nihilistic nenk nenk nenk, that I might know you through and through. Reveal to me your scars and poor engineering that make your timekeeping abilities so inexplicable; ensorcell me with tales of poor packing and ill-adjusted mics, my barbarous batterer, that I may see you as you are. Fill my aural canals with your resinous, rusty love like a sex robot humping the jail cell bars after a night of debauchery on the town, that I may never extricate myself from that sweet, awful snare tone again.
Let me know you, O trash snare, that together we can sow your wild seeds of imperfect perfection across the metal horizon.