THIS ISN'T MY HORN
Things are slow in tempest town.
Though I blow the clarion call, this is
not my horn - trumpet, coronet,
alto sax, whatever it is you wish, they
all can be heard in varied increments
trebling your dive and filling your wants.
Tuba or tremelo, basso and brass. I
never really know to tell. The marks
the strange drummer has made on
the skins of his suit seem enough to
drive along this bastard rhythm.
-
Mayhem seems a dog-faced catcher
hereabouts. The landsman sits at
attention, never even varying his
shades - and the shape of his eyes,
those little, sickening slits, can
everyday make me cringe.
-
Jazz times jazz, the nickel man
declaims : 'break that meter, brother,
break it; make that rhythm soar anew!'
Though I blow the clarion call, this is
not my horn - trumpet, coronet,
alto sax, whatever it is you wish, they
all can be heard in varied increments
trebling your dive and filling your wants.
Tuba or tremelo, basso and brass. I
never really know to tell. The marks
the strange drummer has made on
the skins of his suit seem enough to
drive along this bastard rhythm.
-
Mayhem seems a dog-faced catcher
hereabouts. The landsman sits at
attention, never even varying his
shades - and the shape of his eyes,
those little, sickening slits, can
everyday make me cringe.
-
Jazz times jazz, the nickel man
declaims : 'break that meter, brother,
break it; make that rhythm soar anew!'
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