Don't wanna be a bari saxophonist
Don't want a case that is taller than I am.
I'd rather be exiled to Siam
Then lug this thing that starts me cryin'.

Welcome to a new kind of tension
All up and down my vertebrae
Where everything isn't meant to be okay.
I have dreams of playing soprano
My weakened lungs produce a piano (dynamic mark, not instrument)
That's all that they have air to play.

Well, maybe I'm a wimp on the alto
Disagreeing with super-strong bozos.
Now everybody lift this and-uh-oh
Fall to the floor and cry over your boo-boo.

Don't wanna be a bari saxophonist
Don't want a case that is taller than I am.
My muscles, weakening and dying,
Are telling me to become a trombonist.

(Repeat verses as needed.)