Band Parent POEM

Tardy Terry the Tarrying Trombonist

Behold our poor Terry and bemoan his fate,
For every occasion, he always is late.

He's never on time and I am not sure why,
In all other ways, he's a very nice guy.

The kind of a guy who would never offend,
And whom even the oboes consider a friend.

Yet, he's never on time, even for things to eat,
At rehearsal, he's always the last in his seat,
And his entrances lag half a bar 'hind the beat.

His pitch wavers, he's even late moving his slide,
The director is fed up, near fit to be tied

You would think such a thing, it would hurt Terry's pride,
But he takes it all and, oh, much more in his stride.

His mind is just elsewhere, I think on the moon,
He forgets he's supposed to be somewhere else soon.

No doubt it's genetic, this condition forlorn,
I hear tell he was full two weeks late to be born.

He will outlive us all, I must say with a sigh,
He will simply be late, when it comes time to die.

The Reaper won't wait, for with time he is thrifty,
Our Terry should live past one hundred and fifty.

Copyright George Yenetchi, 1999