Twenty-four notes
Eight lines of three
With my silver trumpet
I bade farewell to thee

The sky was blue
The air was (so) cold
The flag was presented
After the fold

Soldiers from every branch
Stood at attention
Raised their rifles and fired
As it was standard convention

That's when I played taps
The ancient rendition
Not a sound could be heard
Storied conviction

I played taps
With a silver trumpet
On a cold day in January
And I can't forget it