Here is the tale, it's spoken word-for-word,
It may be abominable, but, yes it must be heard.
Nauseating at first, you can expect the worst,
So listen closely, as the plot unfolds...
I might stretch the truth, may be a little lie,
There was a boy named Brad,
He played trumpet, and he died.
Too young for him to cease,
Why? We haven't got a clue,
It's on the internet, so then it must be true.
The untimely death of Brad,
How sad it must have been.
If you see him anywhere,
Remember to console him.
I curse the day, I ever met the boy,
Only the good die young, they say.
The details of his death are vague
Unbelievable it seems,
As if his passing was only a dream.
Catastrophe, calamity,
What will we tell his mother now?
Cataclysmic, a tragic mishap,
I just heard that their band is breaking up.
I hear his trumpet, his voice rings in my ears,
It sometimes seems he's standing very near.
I don't believe in ghosts,
I've never seen one,
But isn't the trumpet playing haunting on this album?
A day that lives in infamy,
In horror we behold, his passing,
His memory, but the truth must be told.
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