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.
Lyrics submitted by John M