The parade comes marching through the town
Knocking on windows, tearing our black shrouds down
Beating their drums in merciless rhythms,
Only then do we notice the apparent schism.
One side holds purples and golds
The other, merely greens and blues of bold.
In the middle stands the portly ghosts,
Not realizing that they're merely hosts.
Both sides await the feigned attack
As the parade dances forth and back
Singing in their foreign tongue,
Not quite listening to the beat of the new drum.
Hammering on in senseless fashion,
Seeming to be without real passion,
Both sides converge to cause an infusion,
Not helping them to see past the real delusion.
Trying to keep the wolves at bay
Only to realize that neither side shall give way
The ghosts begin to question the town's display
Wondering: Which will be the side to seize the day?