The Socially Awkward Trombone Poem

Just to be clear, I have never been a big poetry fan, and I do realize that I'm probably missing out on something. So many people find poetry beautiful and inspiring, but I have to admit that Shel Silverstein has been the only poet that I took great pleasure in reading. I don't hate poetry or anything, I just don't really get it. Maybe i'm not "deep" or something...

Having said this, I will now present an original trombone poem by yours truly. It is still a work in progress, but it is the first poem I have written that was not for a school assignment, and I can promise you that when I started the blog I never thought I would put a poem here. I just had the dumb thing pop into my head while I was playing late in a practice room. Weird things happen during 2am practice sessions.



The Socially Awkward Trombone Poem
by Rebecca Clemens

Band directors call it condensation,

But trombonists know that it’s spit.

Some say trombone’s our vocation,

But rarely do we commit.

We sit in the back and tell jokes,

Pretending our horns are light sabers,

Laughing when a soloist chokes,

And harassing our trumpeter neighbors.

Our horns are used for experiments,

Growing mold that’s black, blue, and green,

You look upon mold with resentment?

We see it as pretty darn clean.

The noises we make are improper,

So cover your child’s ears.

We could use mutes as a sound stopper,

But you’d have to hand over some beers.

And have you looked down at our feet?

We can’t tie our shoes.

We’re a little off-beat

Prob’ly from all the booze.

(Have you noticed this poem changes meter?

Just like trombonists often do.

We can’t read key signatures either,

Which makes us all sound like poo)

We love yelling loudly and playing with fire,

Hooray! For a huge conflagration!

If you ask us, we’re always for hire,

If you can risk your reputation.

We’ll even play events free,

If you’ll give us some food.

We’re desperate, you see?

It doesn’t have to taste good.

We don’t want real jobs,

Trombone works just fine,

We aren’t music snobs,

We just want a good time.

Mom and Dad are still wondering

What they did wrong

To end up with a blundering

Trombonist that plays for too long.

They wonder if they will ever be rid of its sound.

If their kid will move out before fifty.

They look for trombonist jobs and ask around.

What they find looks downright shifty.

We’re very easily side-tracked

And we like staring at shiny things,

We’re louder if we’ve snacked,

Watch out or we’ll make your ears ring.

But one thing’s for sure,

We’re all proud to play.

It’s our key to a cure

For long crummy day.

-The Socially Awkward Trombone