The Saxophone Player
is Carelessly Whispering,
Your Latest Trick,
on Baker Street.

Not for the Saxophone Player,
the heavy strum of an Electric Guitar,
not for him the beat of the drum,
or the knuckle twisting chords of the Keyboard.

Not for him, the ego and dancing of the Singer,
or the look of boredom when a band-mate solos.
Not for him, the cry of look at me,
and the number of notes I play,
but for him the melody, and the nuance is key.

Not for him is the cry of the flesh,
but the gente seduction of the ear.
Not for him a loud amplifier,
a squealing microphone when he steps to close,
just the shiny instruments that sits underneath his nose.

The Saxophone Player
is Carelessly Whispering
about Your Latest Trick,
somewhere down Baker Street.