the drummer whose beats mete out rhythm for sleep
and whose mallets control ever the bleating of the sheep
yeah, the weathered and the worn skin from the day we are born
its oscillations ruin nations, send them headfirst into war

yes, every action and effect, their cause lies firm in retrospect
within the confines of those hands that, us, like mannequins, direct
and the drumbeats ring out, strong, like a dictator's song
regardless of your own volition, you will end up in the throng

and the clockwork of the sound that, with precision, us, surrounds,
runs through the vessels of our bodies and ends up splashed on the ground
with every pulse our hearts constrict and every thought that it evicts
ends up as fodder in the war for which the rhythm exists

well, this drummer has a name and multileveled is his game
it seems we humans cannot fathom it, no we are far too tame
but then why is it that some out of all of us who come
seem to grasp it and control it as if they, too, hold the drum

whether jealosy or rage befall the legend in this age,
it doesn't matter what we call him; with the turning of the page
each time an era draws to close, he'll don a new set of clothes
until the founders of the movement wouldn't touch it with a hose

and religion is the same, for not a single one can claim
that if its idols now were here they'd realize it was the same
pathetic movement long ago for which they sacrificed, and lo!
behold the horrors carried out for people who no longer know

and the thoughts that, with them, came; were just a way to end the pain
oppression-brought, but it's attached itself somehow onto their name
which has obscured the only reason that they practically did treason
yeah, they did it to convey a message to outlast their season

but it's human, so they say, to rend(er) memes in such a way
that when they reach originator, they are just like night and day
when compared to the intentions which a dreamer in contention
for pariah of the year has: not to set up new conventions

no, what they all really sought, who, for the drummer's beat, fought
was to effect a change that would forever stay wrought
and so it was that the outcast did a die or two cast
and the pariah of the year became messiah to the last

and still, throughout all the mess of opiates for the masses
still the cadence rules supreme, osmoses through all the facets
for all "smart" anashim religion's become a machine
to further themselves; on ideals, ha tofef mashtin

yeah, ideas become wet, slipp'ry from "you're in", yet
they grasp them nevertheless and never once begin to fret
even as he perspires, and his sweat transforms to mires
all the cut and dry facts with which they planned to set fires

yeah, the drummer can be seen as human, animal, obscene,
but regardless of his name, his effects are not mean
that is to say that he alone could with no qualm condone
a killer, rapist, or a teacher, for in any he's at home

but as has been said before, the drummer's not in the score,
no, his beat is all that matters, all that he exists for
and with the coming of the hour that calls forth the babel tower
but by and for each man alone, yes what we all want is power

no worries, it's hebrew (hebrew spelling not 100 guaranteed):
אנשימ (anashim - ah-nah-SHEEM) - people
התפפ משתינ (hah tofef mashtin - hah toh-FEF mash-TEEN) - the drummer urinates