Studio Musician

We’ve never met, but you know me well
I am the English horn that played the poignant counter-line
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, pulling my five a week
I’m the voice through which empty men try to speak
A studio musician
Blowing the chance I seek
And when the woodwind cushion rises
I start to dream with the low brass bed
And I reject the riffs and Hendrix licks they’ve paid me for
That I’ve played before
Instead, they want what I hear in my head
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-in-trade
Singles, jingles, and demos conveniently made
A studio musician
Whose music will die unplayed