I am a studio musician
Weve never met
But you know me well
I am the English horn
Who plays the poignant counter line
Upon the song you heard
While making love in some hotel
I am a part of you
Ive never tried for fame
Youll 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
Im a working musician
Living from week to week
Im the voice through which empty men try to speak
A studio musician
Blowin the chance I seek
And when the woodwind cushion rises
I start to dream
On a low brass bed
But I awake to horns
The drummer calls to me
Were up to letter D
Im a man of the moment
Pop is my stock and trade
Singles, jingles, and demos
Conveniently made
A studio musician
Whose music will die unplayed
A studio musician
Whose music could have died unplayed