My Sophomore year- I’m in marching band, 
Playing my trumpet on the field and in the stand.
Part of our show was easy as pie, 
Now our director changed it- such a complicated guy! 
I used to go from yard lines side 1 45 to side 2 45 (not marching dirty) , 
Then halfway to the 40 and then to the 30! 
I go from half to the 40 to the 30 in 8 counts, 
I’m 5’1, I can’t make it in that amount! 
After 12 counts I make it, the judges don’t care, 
My friends on the 35 and out to my right- yeah, way over there.
So there I am with my trumpet and box prop, 
I’m the start of a diagonal- the one at the top.
I’m sad to be alone- all sweaty and dirty, 
Faraway by myself, Way Out on the Thirty!                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    