you traded

your cabaret card

for somebody's

idea of paradise

 

& now --

you're standing

outside a club on

52nd street,

 

the rain, beating

a philly-joe solo

on the brim of

your fedora

 

can't even get

your fucking foot

in the front door

of the jazz joint

 

they named for you û

bird, the man

who could glide over

chorus after chorus

 

smooth, sure, & fast

as your little sister's

ass, & never run

out of things to say

 

bird, "liberator of paris",

"king of bebop" --

gets another royal

welcome home

 

so, what now --

 

the jazz clubs

are being replaced,

one-by-one,

with strip dives

 

& they're playing

rock & roll

over at the

paramount --

 

claiming, bop's

just an outline

of the past,

a graveyard ghost...

______________________

 

but you can

come with me --

if you wanna go

to kansas city

 

a place where you

can play without

a goddam license

& you won't have to be

 

charlie parker with strings;

 

you can be free --
 

a bird-on-the-wing...