Barry Tone, Not My Type Of Playa

Ooh...this... just an amazing grace note

recalling how I felt like an ass

and wanna toot 'bout me getting steered

(as a heavy metal kid Rocker)

toward befriending a brass

see gutsy, horny,

and MainLine snooty upper class

action button down

(grace fully slick as vaseline), airily glinting

forcibly hawked, laundered, and pawned

by the instrumental

Mister Deangelo O'Donnell, High School

(mud flapping, ornery hearing,

and quid juicing Ska Welch ching)

music teacher oompah crass

tone deaf when aye trumpeted desire

to master the Coronet

analogous to pursing lips

blowing tightly held grass

blade between two abetted,

cinched fastened opposable thumbs,

which tooting a supposed aural aphrodisiac

to attract a zaftig well proportioned lass

(ideally shaped like a miniature Tuba)

with one steel funnel like mouthy mass

that probably explains, how such a gal

could easily emulate

facial pucker earning pass

to illustrious honorable first chair

and blasts gratitude akin

as Gabriel would declare

heavenly expressions conducting

angels thru atmospheric ether

alighting on mortal ushering melody

with rites of harkening

springtime Renaissance Faire

solar rays golden raiment

splays rainbow fragments off

beveled, bellowed, and

bedecked polished flare

audiological sound waves trick

saw toothed reflected

silhouetted orchestral shadows

to dance as conductor's baton gear

musicians horns ensemble

epochal feast to hear.