The trumpet’s lament

Today, after years of
servicing jazz musicians
and circus clowns, I call it quits,
I’m rusty and feel like an old gigolo
who has had enough
and wants someplace
quiet and idyllic
where unsatisfied wives
and moustached men
with pictures of Ted Bundy
in their wallets
don’t harass him anymore,
I need a beige shelf
where I can contemplate
on the mystery of music,
where I can marvel at
how I managed to produce
such melody with
just a few valves, pipes and buttons
and I do not want
some fart picking me up
and spitting into my arse again,
sometimes I wonder
if I’ve wasted my life,
yes, I contributed to
the beautiful sounds
of the orchestra,
but it always came at a price,
some bastard with
halitosis had to blow air
up my rear end,
and how I wish I could have
produced music on my own!
In Japan, or some other
place, I heard that they’re
developing instruments like
me with AI. I hope that one day
we’ll create sound
without slimy lips and sticky tongues,
but until then,
I beg you, wannabe Miles Davises!
I implore you!
Do not fucking pick me up!

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