(A vision of red-mouths, outthrust bellies in a leafy
créme-de-menthe tropic.)
Wind Instruments
Trombone
I am the brawny man without a brain
Who yawns a heartfelt music mournfully.
The military orchestra reveres
My manliness. Each Sunday afternoon
I lead in the Gaillard-Apothéose.
For I exude no poignant, fevered sounds
And yet I have my share of sentiment.