Jazz Fantasia
Drum on your drums, batter on
your banjoes,
sob on the long cool winding
saxophones,
Go to it, O jazzmen.
Sling your knuckles on the
bottoms of the happy tin pans,
let your trombones ooze, and go
husha-husha with the slippery
sand-paper.
Moan like an autumn wind high
in the lonesome treetops,
moan soft like you wanted
somebody terrible, cry like
a racing car slipping away from
a motorcycle cop, bang-bang!
you jazzmen, bang altogether
drums, traps, banjoes, horns,
tin cans - make two people
fight on the top of a stairway
and stratch each other's eyes
in a clinch trumbling down
the stairs.
Can the rough stuff...now
a Mississippi steamboat pushes
up the night river with a
hoo-hoo-oo....
and the green lanterns calling
to the high soft stars...a red moon
rides on the humps of the low
river hills....go to it,
O, jazzmen
