I am a studio musician,

We've never met,

But you know me well.



I am the English horn,

Who plays the poignant counterline

Upon the song you heard

While making love in some hotel.



I am a part of you,

I've never tried for fame,

You'll never know my name.



I am the strings that enter softly,

Or three guitars

That glitter gold.



I am the thousand trumpet lines

That were an afterthought,

Intended as a way

To get a dying record sold.



I never ride the road,

I never play around,

I play what they set down.





I'm a working musician,

Living from week to week,

I'm the voice through which empty men try to speak.



A studio musician,

Blowin' the chance I seek.





And when the woodwind cushion rises,

I start to dream,

On a low brass bed,



But I awake to horns,

The drummer calls to me,

We're up to letter D.



I'm a man of the moment,

Pop is my stock and trade,

Singles, jingles, and demos,

Conveniently made.



A studio musician,

Whose music will die unplayed.



A studio musician,

Whose music could have died unplayed.