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
