Another poem, another rhyme,
Yet, I know that I'll never make a dime.
Music, you know, is where it's at,
But my trombone career, it went scat.
I wish I were now a piano man,
Where I could create many a fan.
All I want is to be someone important,
But instead, I'm doomed to be a social runt.
Music is what flows through my soul,
Yet, I write lyrics that I could mix in a bowl,
But I never learned to play the piano,
So I guess my dreams will be relegated to the downlow.
I'm a writer. Things could be worse.
I could be totally devoid of everything, even verse,
Yet, I dream of the time where I can fly,
Hoping maybe it'll mesh together before I die.
Maybe some day I'll be a piano man,
And then I'll be rich, get a George Hamilton tan,
And I can help my mama and my papa with their bills,
All while I'd be getting my thrills.
Yes, I wish I could be a piano man,
And appeal to the fans like no one can.
I will dream of the time when I can fly,
So maybe it'll mesh together before I die.