The embouchure he put into his mouth and bit down,

He inhaled deeply, and with his lips sealed tight,

Let out a cavernous breath that began to fill the bag.

Two more of these yawning exhalations and the sack was full;

The drones whimpered with pressure and anticipation.

The piper placed his hand fondly on the bottom of the hide,

And with great force and facial strain, he shoved it upward,

Until the drones flickered and hollered with sudden life.

His lungs and arms alternated every few seconds;

And thus began the cycle of breathing and squeezing.

His borehole chanter uttered its first words,

And the racket became much louder than at first.

He fumbled for the correct finger placement.

Once settled, he played an unwavering ‘E’,

Which harmonized with the pitch of his drones,

As perfect as blue compliments a fair-haired lass.

After a moment’s pause, the piper’s foot set his beat,

And his fingers surged into their dizzying magic,

That we call ‘loud and obnoxious’ yet ‘haunting.’

The hum and buzz of the drones in the background,

Sing a song in perfect harmony that unites all,

And the rallying cry that sang its own song,

So as to unite the independent with a beautiful tune.