Sour Trumpet Flat Trumpet
Sour trumpet, flat trumpet; disharmony you create…
That’s simply not music; that hot air, you blow;
clearly your valves are blocked.
Where did you learn those old sour notes?
those twitters, squeaks and squeals,
I’m so bamboozled; you’ve gobsmacked my ears.
How dare you, screech flat notes into my tender ears;
when they’ve listened to real music for decades.
Why must your revenge deafen everyone?
You’re not all that clever; you loud, blaring beast.
Your sour notes could wilt the bark
on every self-respecting tree in the forests.
Just please, go back to school and learn something new.
If you must blow hot air, go and get some repairs;
then perhaps the world will think better of your a-tones.
For: What Gobsmacks, Bamboozles and Confuses Me Poetry Contest; Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger
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