He stands backstage Sweaty palms And looks out at the buzzing crowd from behind the iron curtain And he wonders why he even is here in the first place Sharing wordless poetry through his Melodies harmonies doo-da-dee-das He vomited on his tux before he got here Outside a vacant lot Next to a smelly garbage dumpster So here he is, tuxless, because he doesn't want people to smell his acrid puke Up next, Gerry and the Coltranes! He briskly walks onstage Hears a break a leg, feels a pat of assurance That everything is gonna be just fine He looks back at his band members Sweat, beads of it, forming on his forehead He is nervous, shaking in his boots He just vomited and still tastes pennies What's he gonna do now, do a number 2 in his newly dry-cleaned pants? The drummer starts off, rat-a-tat-tat-tat And the beautiful singer, with her elegant red dress Shimmering in the flood of stage lights, scats to the rhythm Shoo-ba-bee-skid-da-dee-da With each syllable she enunciates She sways her hips Her voluptuous ass gyrating under her Red fiery dress. After five minutes of scatting she gives him the nod He releases a steady drone, an E, and then gradually soars The slow triplets lead into a staccato beat A choppy skipping rhythm Then he just loses himself Closes his eyes Blissfully comes into himself again as he skillfully Drops and releases his delicate callused fingers upon Those golden keys He becomes one with the band Surrenders his ego to that Candle in the Wind And just plays sweet beautiful jazz music He fuses with the voluptuous golden beauty From which he produces beautiful children Notes whose births, one by one, melt the hearts of the listeners Witnessing a mass birth of notes.
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