I am a studio musician we've never met, but you know me well. I am the English horn you played, the poignant counterline 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 a 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-o-week, I'm the voice through which empty men try to speak. A studio musician, blowing the chants I speak. 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'll wake to horns, the drummer calls to me, we're up to letter D. I'm a man of the moment, puppets by stock and trade. Singles, jingles and demos, convenient they made. A studio musician, whose music will die unplayed. I'm a working musician, pulling my five-o-week, I'm the voice through which empty men try to speak.