Room B16

I arrived too early

To earn the first chair of this bar

It’s raised, with every measure

But I can’t reach the top

Rushing for new alternate material

The stool fell as I picked it up

I was pushed, now I’m studio banned

“Why did you stop playing?”

I was working on my Lincoln Center core

But I shouldn’t worry about hits right now

I live in the sticks

But there’s not an album in the charts

That I can finally bring home

“Faster!”

The stress of his accent

Is above the line

I can’t stand it anymore

Dragging this sheet music behind me

It’s made to lead

But I’m out of time

Pedalling as fast as I can

I’m heading for cover

Hi-hat!

The tempo increases—

As I pick up pace—

Kicking the bass—

Double-time swing—

With a spring—

In my step . . .