Banged up with scars to prove it
Strung up in the dangerous kitchen
The snare in all its broken glory
Is accompanying the horn section
The tubas and the trombone
Are draped between the altos,
The clarinet just hangs beneath the rest.
The brass is dark and dirty, some
Look a little rusty
I don't think anyone will blow them anymore.
The gat is black and golden
And sits right in the middle,
Just behind the silver microphones.
The cheeky prima donna, it steals the show
A hobo in a suit, encored.
The kitchen is in chaos,
It looks a little dirty
The old gas tap connects to nothing,
It was painted with the wall long ago.
No one should ever eat here
They're bound to die, surely
As the old jazz kitchen cooks silent harmonies.
The be-bop ghosts are
Pining at the window
But no-one's ever going to know that tune.
They won't play it on the radio
Or hum it in the parlors,
Still the art-deco poster lady
Plays it soft, she plays it low.
Through the bubbling of my coffee
I can hear the specter rhythm,
I know by tomorrow’s morning
I won't remember how it goes.
Somewhere west of Cuba,
Surrounded by naked dancers
They're wailing caps and bottles
They’re wailing caps and bottles