241st Chorus

And how sweet a story it is

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

                 horn

Anyhow, made no difference.

Charley Parker, forgive me—

Forgive me for not answering your eyes—

For not having made in indication

Of that which you can devise—

Charley Parker, pray for me—

Pray for me and everybody

In the Nirvanas of your brain

Where you hide, indulgent and huge,

No longer Charley Parker

But the secret unsayable name

That carries with it merit

Not to be measured from here

To up, down, east, or west—

—Charley Parker, lay the bane,

 off me, and every body