The band, the trio, be be-boppin',
Scat singin': "Oh shoo-be doo-bee;
do-bop, do-bop."
Be-boppin' above the tinkles and clinks
of cocktail glasses, beer bottles,


and wine corks-a-poppin'.

The bassist be bangin', walkin' home
and singin' with his bow.
The drums and symbols bang, crash, thud,
crack, and bash with syncopated beats.

The bassist be swingin' and swayin'
twistin', turnin', and thumpin'


to the squiggling sound
of the saxophone. As the sax swings --
wailing and winding --
Bird lives in the quick riffs
and sqeaking screeches
of the saxman's tormented soul.

Fleeting emotions hoot and hop
embossing the fragmented music
as the harmony, the melody
and the rhythms repeat the beat,
a bas-relief mirroring
the audiences immortal soul.
Bird lives as we feel his pain.