Treble clef blessed with a melody
That skims sour day.
Bas clef was never as loved
By almost anyone.
I am a percussionist
And I want no part of this healthy, well balanced fight.
Think of the loudest thing you ever heard.
Now dial it up like your grandmother you don’t call for a reason.
This story is not about me.
It is about the boy on the third row
In band class,
Who shrank to two feet tall when spoken to.
I did not speak to him
Because I was a mute.
I Felt bad for him.
He buried himself in the brass.
One day the band was waiting for him when he walked in
Sans band members
The trumpet yelled,
Sick with John’s cold.
You need to get a stronger tongue.
I have just the thing.
The trumpet flew to his mouth with the end blaring into
The boy’s throat and he convulsed as it scraped the
Insides of his toes and came back up again.
Then the boy could not stop speaking.
I listened from the instrument closet.
He was excited and incomprehensible
Until the flute whispered in his ear,
And he reunited with himself.
When the band members frolicked in
He said in a loud, smooth voice,
Give me the first chair.