There are sometimes when I do not care if I ever play another Sousa March; when I do not long to hear another performance of MANHATTAN BELCH; when the jolly strains of THE PUBERTY BELL leave me cold;when my foot fails to tap in time with THE WASHINGTON PEST; when I yawn at the novelties of NIBBLES OF THE MISTAKE SHRINE; when I cannot endure the redolence of SMELL CAPITAN; when my flesh crawls at the thought of another run through of STARS AND TRIPE FOREVER; when, in short, I grow tired of life and fall prey to the perils of DISTEMPER FIDELIS.
And yet there are times when I hear afterbeats sounding in my soul; when my left foot longs to mark downbeats on the sunny street; when my teeth ache for the jar of the mouthpiece, twice a second, one hundred twenty times a minute; when my scalp sweats and stirs as if my head were squeezed into a tight band cap; times when only one composer will do, when I've gotta have my fix, when you'll find me roaming the streets, with my horn in one hand, and a lyre in the other, desperately seeking Sousa.
Gotta go,
The Cabbage