A trumpeter lurks
in the pub by our church.
According to hearsay
he's quite unique
on this artichoke rock.
And according to venturers
beyond its packed layers
even in the vast Mediterranean.

Last night
the master played till two
and drank till four.
Then he had some rest,
woke up,
and walked out of the bar
as if nothing were.

Tonight he'll start again
at ten p.m..
It's a shame, 'cause at that time,
his audience will enjoy it,
but they won't understand a thing.
The maestro says it's no loss.
Tonight
he'll break his heart a time or two;
he'll drink one tot or just a few;
but nonetheless
he'll play his soul again
till after two.