In the downpour's tears, the drumline weeps, 
Each raindrop a rhythm, each note it keeps. 
Their melodies echo in a gloomy refrain, 
As ashen clouds lament, leaving sunrays in vain. 

On soaked streets, they march, a mournful parade,
Drums beat softly, as if in they wade.
The rain's percussion, a solemn sound,
In this waterlogged realm, their sorrows are found. 

Still, the wind howls, and the drums play on,
In this symphony of sadness, they still move on.
Each drop and each beat, a story of despair,
Rain and snares symphonize in the damp, misty air.