There was no one who could top the keen chops of this guy
When he’d play his horn, all the ladies would sigh

He played with abandon. He played with appeal
He played with great passion. He played with great zeal

He played till his eyeballs popped out of his head
But believe it or not, that is not why he’s dead

It was not the trumpet that robbed him of breath
And caused him to close his popped eyes in sweet death

It was in despair that he gave up the ghost
It seems that he died of a bad rhyme or complete lack thereof.