Who cares about our band?

I have been trying to get the members together for a practice
since last February, when it was decided over India Pale Ale that we should begin.
We were inspired by our collaboration on the tavern countertop,
by the way T-Bone could set up an almost click-track effect
by tapping the base of her hand on the tabletop,
by the way Possum managed the orchestral arrangements,
by T’s appearance in publications of note, which seemed to suggest
he could parlay this wordsmithery into some raw fuckin’ lyrics.
I would do whatever, play a little tambourine, a little kazoo,
keep things unexpected with the addition of marimba.
But despite that one practice in Leon’s basement,
and the sweet poster Leon made for our show that never materialized,
we never recorded any tracks, we slouched toward each other
with too little interest on that March practice evening,
and found that without beer our band was a failure.
Our imaginations had been too large pants
our shriveled voices and kazoos could not fill.