The Third Chair Gets Heard.

The third chair trumpet, I felt no nerves at all as I slicked my pretty pencil lips. My fingers don't shiver with pugilistic pulsing on the valves Jazz the niggers called it should be felt in my virgin hips count the meter COUNT IT (it breaks Basie's soul in Quarter notes) The Troubadours that will be jazzing junes at eleven don't even know my name My pitch glaze of soul poured into cold brass When The Count kicked shadows my high C solidified his fame. anonymous I (and only I) blow that true jass The pimps of the sax the boys of the beat the arms of tracks the bass that weeps Tonight the lone third seat falters the last fading tune there's someting to be said when someone beautiful leaves the room.