Not quite there

The trumpet, played badly, is harsh on the ears,
My brother had tears in his eyes.
I tried to play softly to comfort his fears,
The noise is beyond a disguise.
I wanted a sludge-pump, a shiny trombone,
To dazzle the girls of my age;
Imagine the sight of a boy on his own,
Blowing jazz from the front of the stage.

I'd tried for two weeks when a message arrived,
"We have one, returned to the school",
I had my trombone, and my brother survived,
A down-side but "Hey! I'm a fool!"
Assiduous practice and neighbours who glared
And orchestras, bands and the rest.
I hadn't much talent, but gladly I shared
My folk are too nice to protest.

Glenn Miller and Mozart and Strauss on the side,
I tried every score I could find.
The sounds of my sludge-pump could not be defied,
They told me that they didn't mind.
I think I got better, I didn't get worse,
I saved up and bought my own 'bone.
I hated the time that it took to rehearse
But loved when attention was shown.

I went up to uni. and took it with me,
You never know when you can play.
Found other musicians were happy to see
Me blasting out tunes every day.
Rag-week arrived, "Would we play for some girls"
The Stripper, while they played at "tarts",
Twenty young ladies in tinfoil and pearls,
This music's the finest of arts.

I no longer play it, my embouchure gone
It sits over there in its case.
Trombonist I wasn't, I never quite shone,
No groupies to set up a chase
But two of my children have blown it at times
And both of them thought it a scream.
My art is now written and focused on rhymes
But "Jazzman" is still quite a dream.