241st Chorus

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