He's No Dead-Beat Drummer—He's a Low-Life Bass Player
It always makes me nervous when I'm sitting down to play
For fear that someone listening might think
That I'm just a low-life bass player who cannot find his way,
Or a strung out guitarist teetering on the brink.
I'd rather 'twas a keyed-up pianist that they detected,
Or a steel drum player recently been canned,
Or an old transplanted organist some church choir just rejected
When a backsliding trombonist joined their band.
I know they won't mistake me for a tubby little tubist,
Nor a dead-beat drummer pounding on his head;
But they might guess I'm a quivering cellist (doing what they do best),
Or a vile violinist, banishéd.
Since I'm not a picky banjo type, I know I shouldn't fret
That someone will think wrongly of me—though
When they hear the horrid sounds I make that no one else can get—
I'm just afraid that by then…they will know…