Ode

Untitled Ode

This is an ode to my trumpet

To its smooth curves and slick valves

And the beautiful sounds it produces.

Though it maybe a bit difficult to understand

And an uninspired few

Hear its calls as loud and annoying,

But what these homunculi don't understand

Is its crisp sound produced with a true maestro;

A true entrepreneur could make it sound

As smooth as silk,

And its lyrical values can move

Any true listener to goosebumps.

I can simply lift the heavenly mouthpiece to my lips

And produce music;

The true universal language.

Though I have my downfalls

And I make mistakes

The truest linguist of all languages

can always make up for it, always.

(Even if it’s not the note you anticipated)

It almost seems as if he was forced to write this to be blunt. Whilst his other works are deep in meanings and metaphors, this just seems like a shallow filler. It doesn't seem like him to gush about such a mundane object. To whereas he usually writes about wars. Pain. Emptiness. He seemed extremely uncomfortable writing this.