I am a studio musician, We've never met, But you know me well. I am the English horn, Who plays 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 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, Living from week to week, I'm 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, We're up to letter D. I'm 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.