That little trumpet has lost sound
Go ahead and ask around
Picked up in a house I found
Nesting on the burial ground.

Contorted notes filled the room
After a dusting with the broom
False promise joined in soon.
Perched upon a dim lit flume

The night slipped by, no refrain
It blasted on through the pouring rain
Howled on in the excruciating pain
Of having sheltered existence through a life in vain

When daylight came, it was still the same
Brass with no name, playing for a dame
Really quite the shame, an ever-growing flame
Held within a picture frame, was a revitalized search for fame

As darkness came, I grew tired
Felt like it was about time I retired
Set down the trumpet I acquired
And left the shack feeling quite expired

There that little trumpet lost sound
Now there’s no need to ask around
Left it in the house I found
Somewhat near the burial ground.