I'm always glad I play the bass,
except to look for a parking space.
Studied with a guy named Barry ,
who taught me much, 'cept how to carry
my gargantuan fragile friend of wood.
I traverse through a neighborhood,
of shuttered stores where's parked my beater,
on the way to a sparkling theater.
Too cheap to lay a fiver down,
I know each street space in this town,
behind the Goodyear, in front of the bar,
Nobody's stealing this old car.
The bass—it is another matter,
I always answer to such patter
as "What's it worth, how much it cost?"
with "You can't play it; please get lost!"
I was young, it was back in the day;
here and now I'd have to say,
tender that sawbuck, pull into a space
that makes it easy to carry a bass.