My Percussive Feet Serve Cobweb Headaches

"My wingtips waltz across naive wood floors,
They creak innocently down the stairs.
Drag melody.
My percussive feet serve cobweb headaches.
As a matching set of marching clocks,
The slumbering apparitions that they've come to wake up.
Here I am, composing a burlesque out of where they rest their necks,
Sunken in their splintered cradles and ramshackle heads.
They asked for it."