The brass band wears black arm bands

Now Ted is gone.

His lungs survived years down the pit,

He was a master of the

Piston valve but now his trumpet lies

Idle, its finger buttons at rest

The mouthpiece cold, quite free from spittle.

The air that made Ted's lips vibrate is gone,

No more the change of lip tension that varied

His vibrations giving notes of different pitch, the

Valves diverting the breath to extend his range.

When Ted's wind ran out

The ventilator, a kind of trumpet in reverse

Blew air the other way for a while but

Though not short of valves,

There was little musical about it.