Lyrics

Hey Jazzman, where ya gonna sleep?
There's records on your bed, at least a hundred deep

There's a city of trumpets on your floor
A player piano parked in front of the closet door

Books stacked up on the porcellean chair
So there'll be no sleepin' or squattin' there

Hey I found some free space in your microwave
For another stack of schelak, it's totally taylor made


Hey Jazzman, what ya gonna dig up today?
Most of the ghosts have tidied up their graves

I saw a rummage sale over on Hammil Blvd
Looked like the 1920's had thrown up in the yard

Some old guy died around 10am
And the grandkids are already cashin' in

I thinks we better get down there quick
other vultures are already pickin' thru it


Hey Jazzman, who ya gonna hunt down?
Greats like Bunk aren't still just hangin' round

I heard there's this geezer who plays like Fats over in Ohio
But Fats played like Fats, not like Clarence or Jellyroll

I say we should look for some fresh meat
Some kid in his bedroom, tween headphones cuttin' up some foxtrot beats

Then we can say 'We were there when'
Jazz's grandkid was born, with plastic and digital skin