The trees outside are jivin'
and I'm in here beside 'em
askin' what's going on tonight.
"The party's at eleven,
they'll be playin' Bill Evans,
why don't you bring yourself over?"
"Wigglin' roots all night
bare feet should suffice,"
under the violet sky smilin'.
The pines seem alright,
archaic, a lil blight,
this room is getting stuffy.
So I slip out the back
followin' scents of cognac,
there be a fete in the greenbelt tonight.
Creakin' the wooden gate
I am called upon my fate,
I, am of the roots now.
And all the foliage rejoice
each their own peculiar voice
for I'm just in time, so are we.
As the clock strikes eleven
stridin' down from heaven
he takes his seat once more.