Dare doing the song,
The dawn won`t wait,
The cornet can’t play itself
Away from this sad world.
Ask a bypasser for the tune
Or at least tell him your trouble,
For trouble it is what writes the notes
And singing it is what shares the pain;
Lonesome jazz is all but quiet.
Rumpled brass players often gather,
No arrangements whatsoever,
To set off the sweat off their cheeks,
Down along the veins
Under the black skin of their necks.
The suicide of the century.
They won`t show it in the papers,
They won`t shout it on the radio,
But the dawn will witness
The slaughter in those pork pie hats.
Overly haggard and very very drunk,
Still dismatched with the out-there,
The jazzmen can stop the sun
And cover it all with the dirt of their souls
And the blues of their notes.
The sun can then go
And take care of the day,
Not sure what else to do anyway.
The trouble will stay there,
Before any light appears
Above the horizon and beyond,
And will live in the bush.
For who else but a dumb bush
Has time for jazzmen`s trouble?…