Help me, people!  I get whiney -- like, a couple of times per day – sometimes several times an hour.  So I need you to rough me up periodically with a reality check, OK?  

This was a self-imposed challenge since I had to figure out how to write out winds’ parts. Composing/arranging measure by measure for three instruments wasn’t something I’d done before.  

And then it took a village . . .  to record.  The winds trio consists of two teaching colleagues on trombone and clarinet plus, playing tuba, a member of “The President’s Own” (the United States Marine Band based here in Washington that John Phillip WhatsHisName used to direct!) Washington-area percussionist extraordinaire Tom Teasley (who, I have learned, has military band experience of his own) keeps the rhythm crisp and clear and march-like . . . and occasionally whacky.

© 2013 Steven E. Cutts 
recorded and mixed by Jim Robeson in the fall/winter ’15-‘16 


Steve, vocal 
Christopher Lee, trombone 
Tom Teasley, drums 
Simon Wildman, tuba 
Sarah Winston, clarinet 

Slap me when I whine; yank me into line; glare at me and snarl when I complain. 

Say “Shut up” when I kvetch like some ungrateful wretch; treat me as though I am quite insane. 

If I allege conspiracy, accuse me of mad lunacy; insist that I am being paranoid. 

Whatever curses I invoke, please shout at me “You’re blowing smoke when actually you should be overjoyed.” 


       Yes, fortune has been good to me; I’ve managed to dodge tragedy. 

       I’ve got no monkeys on my back; I haven’t had a heart attack; 

       Eyesight, hearing – both are fine; my memory’s good most of the time. 

       Even though work can be hard, employment sure beats being bored. 

       Sufficient money to enjoy – lots of travel – lots of toys. 

       I’ve got a roof above my head and every night a nice warm bed. 

       My house is on a pleasant street; I always have enough to eat.  

       I’ll try to be more positive and grateful for the life I live. 


So use statistics if you must to undermine my fuss; don’t let me conjure up some sad estate. 

Yes, I know that I am prone to rant, groan, whimper, moan; don’t be tempted to commiserate. 

When I snivel and lament the winter of my discontent, don’t encourage my ingratitude. 

Don’t show up to my pity party; claim you’re ill – not hale and hearty; don’t indulge my lousy attitude. 

The next time I lament my fate, fire away don’t hesitate. Point out I’m acting deaf and dumb and blind. 

When I become melodramatic, just resort to our old tactic: slap me when I whine!