Drum on your drums, batter on your banjoes,
 sob on the long cool winding saxophones.
 Go to it, O jazzmen.

 Sling your knuckles on the bottoms of the happy
 tin pans, let your trombones ooze, and go husha-
 husha-hush with the slippery sand-paper.

 Moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome treetops,
 moan soft like you wanted somebody terrible, cry like a
 racing car slipping away from a motorcycle cop, bang-bang!
 you jazzmen, bang altogether drums, traps, banjoes, horns,
 tin cans — make two people fight on the top of a stairway
 and scratch each other's eyes in a clinch tumbling down
 the stairs.

 Can the rough stuff . . . now a Mississippi steamboat pushes
 up the night river with a hoo-hoo-hoo-oo . . . and the green
 lanterns calling to the high soft stars . . . a red moon rides
 on the humps of the low river hills . . . go to it, O jazzmen.