 | Going-to-the-stars |  |
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A CURSE FOR THE SAXOPHONE
When Cain killed Abel to end a perfect day,
He founded a city, called the City of Cain,
And he ordered the saxophones to play.
But give me a city where they play the silver flute,
Where they play a silver flute, at the dawn of the day,
Where the xylophone and saxophone and radio are mute,
And they play the Irish Harp at the end of the day.
He founded a city, called the City of Cain,
And he ordered the saxophones to play.
But give me a city where they play the silver flute,
Where they play a silver flute, at the dawn of the day,
Where the xylophone and saxophone and radio are mute,
And they play the Irish Harp at the end of the day.
When Jezebel put on her tiaras and looked grand,
Her three-piece pajamas and her diamond bosom-band,
And stopped the honest prophets as they marched upon their way,
And slaughtered them, and hung them in her hearty wholesale way,
She licked her wicked chops, she pulled out all her stops,
And she ordered the saxophones to play.
But give me a Queen whose voice is like the flute,
Queen of a city where the saxophone is mute,
Who can dance in stately measure, in an honest solemn way,
When they play the Irish Harp at the end of the day.
For the Irish Harp moves slowly, though the Irish heart moves fast,
And both of them are faithful to their music at the last,
And their silence after music is the conqueror at last.
Her three-piece pajamas and her diamond bosom-band,
And stopped the honest prophets as they marched upon their way,
And slaughtered them, and hung them in her hearty wholesale way,
She licked her wicked chops, she pulled out all her stops,
And she ordered the saxophones to play.
But give me a Queen whose voice is like the flute,
Queen of a city where the saxophone is mute,
Who can dance in stately measure, in an honest solemn way,
When they play the Irish Harp at the end of the day.
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And both of them are faithful to their music at the last,
And their silence after music is the conqueror at last.
What did Judas do with his silver thirty pieces?
Bought himself a saxophone and played “The Beale Street Blues.”
He taught the tune to Nero, who taught it to his nieces,
And Rome burned down to saxophones that played “The Beale Street Blues.”
Now it comes by wireless, and they call it news!
Bought himself a saxophone and played “The Beale Street Blues.”
He taught the tune to Nero, who taught it to his nieces,
And Rome burned down to saxophones that played “The Beale Street Blues.”
Now it comes by wireless, and they call it news!
When Henry the Eighth of England married his last wife,
He carried underneath his coat a well-edged butcher knife,
But he affected to be glad, affected to be gay,
And he ordered the saxophones to play.
He carried underneath his coat a well-edged butcher knife,
But he affected to be glad, affected to be gay,
And he ordered the saxophones to play.
But give me a wedding where the silver flutes at dawn
Bring visions of Diana, the waterfall and fawn!
Give me a wedding where the evening harp is singing,
And Irish tunes bring Irish kings, their strange voices ringing,
Like songs by William Butler Yeats or noble Padraic Colum,
Give me a wedding that is decent, sweet and solemn,
Not based on brazen dances or hysterical romances,
When they order the saxophones to play!
Bring visions of Diana, the waterfall and fawn!
Give me a wedding where the evening harp is singing,
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Like songs by William Butler Yeats or noble Padraic Colum,
Give me a wedding that is decent, sweet and solemn,
Not based on brazen dances or hysterical romances,
When they order the saxophones to play!
When John Wilkes Booth shot Lincoln the good,
He hid himself in a deep Potomac wood,
But the Devil came and got him and dragged him below,
And took him to the gate—and the rest you know.
Twenty thousand pigs on their hind legs playing
“The Beale Street Blues” and swaying and saying:—
He hid himself in a deep Potomac wood,
But the Devil came and got him and dragged him below,
And took him to the gate—and the rest you know.
Twenty thousand pigs on their hind legs playing
“The Beale Street Blues” and swaying and saying:—
“John Wilkes Booth, you are welcome to Hell,”
And they played it on the saxophone, and played it well.
And he picked up a saxophone, grunting and rasping,
The red-hot horn in his hot hands clasping,
And he played a typical radio jazz,
He started an earthquake, he knew what for,
And at last he started the late World War.
Our nerves all razzed, and our thoughts all jazzed,
Booth and his saxophone started the war!
And they played it on the saxophone, and played it well.
And he picked up a saxophone, grunting and rasping,
The red-hot horn in his hot hands clasping,
And he played a typical radio jazz,
He started an earthquake, he knew what for,
And at last he started the late World War.
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Booth and his saxophone started the war!
None but an assassin would enjoy this horn.
Let us think of the Irish flute in the morn,
And the songs of Colum and the songs of Yeats,
And forget our jazzes and our razzes and our hates.
Let us dream slow Romance and the slow great wings
Of the good and the great sweet Irish kings!
Let us think of the Irish flute in the morn,
And the songs of Colum and the songs of Yeats,
And forget our jazzes and our razzes and our hates.
Let us dream slow Romance and the slow great wings
Of the good and the great sweet Irish kings!
This “Curse for the Saxophone” was dictated by me with Stoddard King at the typewriter offering valuable amendments and suggestions including “The Beale Street Blues.” Mr. King could claim at least half the poem if he chose, not only as an inspiring but also as a constructive artist. In short, he helped me write it.
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