In a dark and dusty pawn shop it's just been sitting there, Not so shiny as it once was, but none the less for wear, Between a half cracked China doll and flowered soup tureen, Just waiting for discovery, the trumpet wants a scene.
An old Les Paul is hanging from a hook that's on the wall, It hopes to get some action soon in studio or hall, It looks down at the trumpet as if it wants to say, Perhaps next week we'll split this joint to see another day.
In musty case the saxophone is dying for a reed, It wants to see the light again it's all it really needs, Engraved and pearled the Martin lies entombed and out of sight, Longing so to wail again in smoke-filled clubs at night.
The Zildjians have an inch of dust; the snare's ajar on stand, Its acned head is pocked with scars from jammin' with the band, And under glass harmonicas are laid out in a line, Though dried up spits invisible they still look mighty fine.
From Fender bass, to Borg, and Strat, you see them in repose, Musicians need to eat sometimes; it's just the way it goes, The sad and lonely instruments await your kind adoption, Lost in a jazzman's graveyard, it's not much of an option.
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