“No, tiny piccolo. My hands crave holding something bigger.”
“Keyboard?” Now, my lips pout.
“Not the drums either,” I fuss. “Hear me! My mouth feels left out!”
So, he chooses this instrument to place in my face. My tongue wets the mouthpiece, lips purse round the hole.
Eager hands join in, grasping and sliding. My, how this instrument extends!
Deep tones sound, when mouth and hands find their rhythm. Moans grow to a crescendo of high notes, signaling the instrument reaches its climax.
With practice, many talents I hone, please allow me to play your rusty trombone.
