In all the calculations
I haven’t really done,
I’ve come to realize that
In four years,
I’ve suffered from
The rocking of a coach buss that
Always made me nauseous
For enough time to
Cross the line of dedicated determination,
Into that of, well, unadulterated masochism.
It’s all been
Sleepless nights passing
Through backwater towns,
And summer’s spent with awkward tan lines,
Because the sun was always on my right,
And my neckstrap always made an arrow pointing down
In four years
I’ve spent more time
trying to remember what my visuals are,
than I’ve spent studying for the ACT
In four years,
I still haven’t managed to figure out,
How I could have just gotten home from band
Only to change my sneakers
And drive straight back
But I think it might have something
To do with the fact
That rest is a four letter word
Fuchs never seemed to learn,
And Greg is hardly any better.
I’d rather have a woman who couldn’t spell,
Over golphers in a blender,
Because what did we ever do to you mister Greg,
That made you want us to look
Like rodents wedged in a glass
Container sacred only to smoothies and milkshakes?
And for that matter why
Do you know what golfers in a blender look like?
But I guess,
Tose are the details, the little things that flesh out the
Importance of some memories, because,
On the grand scale of things,
Band is so much more than just visuals
And practice.
The things they taught us in band
Are like commandments
Of their own design
Written not in stone but imprinted on the wrinkles of our brains,
And what they taught us in band to
Is work harder than we ever really wanted to
Relish in our accomplishments even if no one saw them as victories,
And never stop running towards the impossible.
And most nights,
This was ok with us as we drove home
Through cooling August air
In ravenous packs of wild things
Our speakers music
That couldn’t drown out the thunderous white noise
Of our chatter
It wasn’t ok with us,
On the other nights,
As we drove home in aggravated indignation,
Wearing capes of frustration about our shoulders
As no one seemed to understand
That practice can only make perfect if we practice
And sometimes we just wanted
To bow out like ostriches,
Pressing our faces into the dirt of defeat
But that doesn’t matter tonight
because we have caught the impossible,
We created a collective of individuals.
Unique from the swagger in our steps
To the way we speak our minds.
And this band ends at
And there will never be another like it,
But I can’t wait to see the next one
because I’m pretty damn sure that it
Will be amazing.
And if there were enough words left in
The English language
To express all the things that could be said tonight
I wouldn’t even bother
Because looking for everyone would be like playing
“Where’s Waldo” in the dark,
But here’s just two more I thought you’d like:
Hey Band---


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