It is like the sound of a bell, droll. Serious in intention but then permeating through a deep set of undulations that tickle, just a little bit.
Bells can be used in emergencies. Church bells ringing to bring a town to order, alarm bells, phone bells. Sometimes it is bad being droll in an emergency. ‘Where is the fire exit?’, screams a person in a panic, to which the droll respondent says, ‘wouldn’t you like to know?’ Or they say, ‘Those exits are for fire only.’ Maybe being droll can be good in an emergency when the seriousness of a situation needs to be dispersed a little. Stuck on a desert island the drollist states to the woe-begotten strandees, ‘well we won’t need a beech holiday this year.’ Maybe they would repeat this statement as the group roast them on a spit, or maybe they would say, ‘I really wish I’d brought my suntan cream now.’ Maybe their droll ashen body would look kind of droll too, the bizarre human fossil of someone just having ceased making ironic gestures.
That seems a bit harsh really. But then, I’m just being droll.