A jazz trio plays their avant-garde sound soooo surreal:
It spices the food with such exotic flavors
That the audience savors it like ambrosia of the gods!
That music infuses the space with hues never seen
Flung like paint on a Pollock canvas
Or slapped with a splash like graffiti.
The chord progressions lift as they mix
with the patrons' laughter and patter,
Till the words are blended and blurred,
Replaced with raw syllabic sounds
That undulate like scat.
I swear the notes slide down the brick walls
Now wet with their sweat
As those jazz cats strain
To the strains of Monk and Coltrane,
It shimmers off the sax that hoots and howls,
That yelps and yowls, squeals and squawks
Until those folks have to stop their talk,
And get up and move to the groove.
I tell you it's not just music:
It's a current of high voltage.
Go ahead touch it: it'll make you jump!