Barry Tone Not My Type of Playa

Ooh...this... just an amazing grace note recalling how I felt like an ass and wanna toot 'bout me getting steered (as a heavy metal kid Rocker) toward befriending a brass see gutsy, horny, and MainLine snooty upper class action button down (grace fully slick as vaseline), airily glinting forcibly hawked, laundered, and pawned by the instrumental Mister Deangelo O'Donnell, High School (mud flapping, ornery hearing, and quid juicing Ska Welch ching) music teacher oompah crass tone deaf when aye trumpeted desire to master the Coronet analogous to pursing lips blowing tightly held grass blade between two abetted, cinched fastened opposable thumbs, which tooting a supposed aural aphrodisiac to attract a zaftig well proportioned lass (ideally shaped like a miniature Tuba) with one steel funnel like mouthy mass that probably explains, how such a gal could easily emulate facial pucker earning pass to illustrious honorable first chair and blasts gratitude akin as Gabriel would declare heavenly expressions conducting angels thru atmospheric ether alighting on mortal ushering melody with rites of harkening springtime Renaissance Faire solar rays golden raiment splays rainbow fragments off beveled, bellowed, and bedecked polished flare audiological sound waves trick saw toothed reflected silhouetted orchestral shadows to dance as conductor's baton gear musicians horns ensemble epochal feast to hear.