The same thing happens everywhere Money Jungle is perfect, of the skin, maybe the pulse On the night no one talks about A day before New Years, in Panama City Crooked toe cranes light the canal Where the mountains mumble down to Lows talk to the stomping mallets vicious kiss of the strings in the wood, on the black, spit the music around the air How don't they laugh at beauty When it happens so madly? Switch Blade, What happened after they fade on Charles? We may be document obsessed But this was one worth holding onto Give it to our great grandchildren's nephews When they are on their way to the stars Remember, people spoke the notes, from the heart to the head to the fingers, out the miracle Ah jazz, why did they put you in the schools? And murder you with the desperate cursive of intellect !They saw the money! Everyone sees the money. It is the end of despair, the money. Or at least something to talk about in the vacant spirit of vanity. Not for you, not for you. For the never belongers. The money run. Right, Money Jungle. Duke. Desperate everywhere, going where. I live in this song, covered by its cymbals when the hurricanes come. The jazz makers stay still in their naked pursuit of the illusionless.