Jazz Haiku Money's everythingPlaying any gig that comesWhores, we are all whores Squeaking and squawkingAll eyes roll to the heavensThe clarinet speaks One beat to change fromHarmon to cup to bucket“Hey, who wrote this sh*t?” The jam session startsSomebody calls “Giant Steps”Cold fear grips my brain Here comes the high noteThe lead trumpeter puckersClam, clam. “Crap!” Clam. “Sh*t!” Here's the girl singerStepping to the microphonePitch, time, all gone now Gig is going wellA**hole requests “In the Mood”I look at my watch I once had a dreamBig house, new car, big moneyNow I play the bass Gorgeous chick tells me“You sound just like Kenny G”My ego shatters Three-eight, eleven-eightF*ck you Andrew Lloyd WebberFive-eight, seven-eight The accordion“Squeeze box,” yes, but more often“The Stomach Steinway” The woodwind doublerPracticing the piccoloFrustration defined Trane, Prez, Bird, BreckerGiants of the saxophoneEat sh*t, Kenny G Pit orchestra gigDays and nights become as oneI have no damned life Bad intonationStrings are sharp and reeds are fiatBrass too loud again Great changes, good grooveA one-in-a-million gigNo singer. Yippee! An oxymoron:“He played the accordionWith delicacy” Bassoons foreverTry in vain not to sound likeA falling bedpost The strings slowly tuneWhen they're done, the unisonsAre anything but “I can't find my note”Bemoans the confused singer“Quit now,” we all pray The contractor callsMonths of Andrew Lloyd Webber“Bird Lives” no longer Solo tenor sits Under drummer's crash cymbal“Where are my ear plugs?”
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