|
Squeaking and squawking All eyes roll to the heavens The clarinet speaks
One beat to change from Harmon to cup to bucket Hey, who wrote this shit?
The jam session starts Somebody calls "Giant Steps" Cold fear grips my brain
Here's the girl singer Stepping to the microphone Pitch, time, all gone now
Gig is going well Some one requests "In the Mood" I look at my watch
Gorgeous chick tells me "You sound just like Kenny G" My ego shatters
Three-eight, eleven-eight Damn you Andrew Lloyd Webber Five-eight, seven-eight
The woodwind doubles Practicing the picolo Frustration defined
Pit orchestra gig Days and nights become as one I have no damn life
Bad intonation Strings are sharp and reeds are flat Brass too loud again
An oxymoron: "He plays the accordion With delicacy"
Bassoons forever Try in vain not to sound like A farting bedpost
The strings slowly tune When they're done the unison Are anything but
"I can't find my note" Bemoans the confused singer "Quit now", we all pray
Money's everything Playing any gig that comes Whores, we are all whores
That plate of hors d'oeuvres Cost more than we're getting paid Think we underbid?
God bless trust fund gigs Only have to eat ramen For a few more weeks
|