A kid played the clarinet listening to Goodman on the radio.

Across the country driving a van, I thought to find a trombone.

A kid, and speed on a bike, had no Goodman to mimic.

The metal pipes and reciprocating slide, I never found.

Feet faster than fingers and no practice needed, I rode

Sound in hand no frets or keys pure tones found by practice

Freedom, challenge, the finest detail expressed in friction

The idea of such crazy motion making the sound was calming

So easy, always discarded bits to make a ride usually it was squeaky

I looked for an instrument of brass, a mouth piece all I have found

In time I have been given the best of bikes and notice the subtleties

The mouth piece was given to a cornet blower, I have no Trombone

I chose from several bikes and fly over the road, knowing no limits.

Limited by Benny or Kid Ory, didn’t know Merckx or Lemond and flew.

Music fills the mind with wondering colors that break through dinge

Making way on wheels of my own volition surpasses the mettle of life

The trombone is merry and escapes the confines of placement, I leave it to be.


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