Trombone bones
don't make a poem
Funny that you ask

I wonder why or what
made you cry
Now I have to ask

"The bones are
then laid bare
upon the Sands of Time
and sun bleached pure"

"We hang by threads
until we cut
the rope of life that binds"

Then the funeral proceeds
down the street
Clairenets , trumpets
and trombones

Life is a chance
a game of dice

Won't you roll the bones
with me