And how sweet a story it
When you hear Charley Parker tell it,
Either on records or at sessions,
Or at offical bits in clubs,
Shots in the arm for the wallet,
Gleefully he Whistled the perfect
Anyhow, made no difference.
Charley Parker, forgive me—Forgive me for not answering your eyes—For not having made in
Of that which you can devise—Charley Parker, pray for me—Pray for me and
In the Nirvanas of your
Where you hide, indulgent and huge,
No longer Charley
But the secret unsayable
That carries with it
Not to be measured from
To up, down, east, or west——Charley Parker, lay the bane, off me, and every body
