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Confessions of a Trumpet

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If my trumpet could talk, what would he say?
Would he say that he misses me, when I don't play?
Would he sing me his favorite song to sing
Or still leave me to do such a glorious thing?
Would he answer my questions, account for the times
That his sound wasn't pure or his tone had declined?
Would he tell me the stories of his musical history
Or leave me to solve it, an unspoken mystery?
Would he say he and I were part of a team
That together we shoot bright and radiant beams?
Would he prefer faster tempos, or maybe the slower?
Would he live for the high notes, or die for the lower?
Staccatos and slurs, accents and crescendos
Sharps, flats and naturals, maybe dimenuendos?
Would he hold in his valves, stubborn as glue
And depend on my fingers as trumpets must do?
Would he laugh at the thought and frown along with me
When people concluded his mastery was easy?
Would he think of the first time I blew him a sound
And share with me the joy which inside him I've found?
Would he tease me with BLURTS or taunt me with HONKS?
Annoy me with KWAPS or loud BEBABOMPS?
Would he ham up the whole notes and relax on the rests
Or would it be eight notes that he liked the best?
Would he encourage me or fill me with doubt
Tell why buzzing directions to him wears me out?
Would his words and his rhythms be easy to tell
By the sounds that come from his bright, brassy bell?
If my trumpet could talk, what would he say?
Would he say that together, nothing stands in our way?





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