The trumpeter squeezed hard onto his trumpet
Because he was going to give his all
In making notes that no one could recall
Ever hearing from one instrument so small.
So he blew and blew, and, lo and behold,
The notes never came out of the last hole.
The note were so hot within the pipes,
The metal started to melt. So in spite
Of his attempts to bring out a new note,
There only remained a twisted piece of junk,
That some, so-called artist boasted
of creating even if the public thought it was bunk.