To play and not to breathe is to die from lack of air.
To chromatically scale
The octaves is unfair.

So I leave behind
My f-sharp, which the flutes in kind
Take as a B, so play A D.
Trumpets play A

And I leave
I leave the band
This isn't how it was planned.

So I leave behind
My f-sharp, which the flutes in kind
Transpose off the line

A million and one octaves
For the last time.

I'm done playing this game.
No tears will leave my eyes

When there's nothing left to play
In band I'm always bored.
I leave you one last note:
Tales of another broken chord.