From humbly pure beginnings it is made
and crafted in the sight of God, to be
an instrument of labored serenade,
or joining some triumphant harmony.
Received so well the first time that I played,
a vibrant buzz became my lips, a B.
The rustic tone was coarse and disarrayed,
but I felt nothing less than ecstasy.
No piece which for another would I trade,
whatever worth of such a baubel be.
For any luster, given time, would fade
and leave a misbegotten vanity.
Oh, bold trombone, you master of the grade!
Your touched listeners fall on bended knee,
to drink the drunken whine that deeply plays
with sharply esoteric melody.
Upon my death, when all my debts are paid
and I take rest beneath a trumpet tree,
take not my horn, but lay it by my grave
so joy for ever-more may follow me.