Booby shooby dooby doo
la la la la la
weebee deebee screebee freebee
lah de dah
. . . . .
bop.

Take that ol' jazz cliche and beat it into the ground, baby:
some people say white folks got no soul -
I'd disagree,
but you make me eat my words whole.

Your jazz cab crashes through the brick walls
of this close dark bar basement
cylinders slapping and timing shot all to hell,
turning flowing smoothly fluctuating dancing living music
into the discordant jangle of a dropped steelworker's hammer
as it bounces off seventeen stories of exposed metal beams
and takes a chunk
out the concrete.

The jackhammer is your inspiration,
the vise my punishment
as I search for the melody lurking beneath your screech,
drowning my frustrated musical passion
in another beer,
longing for you
to go hoarse.