When I get off of Pete Fountain, you know what I'm gonna blow?
Eight bars of bad Mississippi Delta jazz; I gulp and mess up so.
My Ray Charles loses stam'na, and my Bessie Smith's kinda crude.
The truth is, I can't play for sh*t, but I've got some alto 'tude.

REFRAIN:
Upper lip is weak—I'm bendin'
Notes and get a squeak, ear-rendin'.
That's when folks beseech my endin'.
"It's junk!" they scream. "Oh, won't you ever be done?!"

Goodman's my next bunglee—an ace on "stick"or oboe.
I commit, of course, a sin: I attempt to play his work in my show.
The audience was favored. I tried to do a run,
But I snagged the octave key in back, and I couldn't use my thumb.

REFRAIN

The pickup note I'm missin'; my rhythm is a mess—they just laugh.
I got lost and I'm playin' bass; should be on treble staff.
I made 'em cringe when a whole note hurled out at one-fifty dB;
None of the victims seemed to mind, I'd hit do instead of ti.

REFRAIN

I come in late, and I've got bad attack. Egad! Like moans from an ox.
They get a break 'cause I do not sing; if I did, they'd hear a squawk.
Playing this horn is a hard job, even when I tap my feet.
And they swear that I toot it like a fool—I've just bessed up the meet!

REFRAIN

Well this aural flood of cacophonia has take a wheezin' toll
On my lungs—end of the road. I think I'm gonna fold.
So my guests fall on their knees—it's manna from heaven! No more blowin'!!!
Right now I'm downbeat and not well-tempered,
But don't have sense to call it the end.

REFRAIN

No, no, no! Don't play, no, no, no, no!
Ow, ow, ow! Abate, ow, ow, ow, ow!