Room B16

I arrived too early
To earn the first chair of this bar
It’s raised, with every measure
But I can’t reach the top
Rushing for new alternate material
The stool fell as I picked it up
I was pushed, now I’m studio banned

“Why did you stop playing?”

I was working on my Lincoln Center core
But I shouldn’t worry about hits right now
I live in the sticks
But there’s not an album in the charts
That I can finally bring home


The stress of his accent
Is above the line
I can’t stand it anymore
Dragging this sheet music behind me
It’s made to lead
But I’m out of time
Pedalling as fast as I can
I’m heading for cover

The tempo increases—
As I pick up pace—
Kicking the bass—
Double-time swing—
With a spring—
In my step . . .

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