Orange colored skies
Tales of burned empires
Days when party bosses were kings
In the era that Boss Tweed pulled the strings
I walk these city streets and each corner speaks volumes of history to me
But your street remains a mystery
Untouched and ivy grown
I hear the distant sounds of a trombone
Harlem calls to me to listen
Having never been there, i dont know what im missing
But i long for the days where jazz was the popular music
Back in the days of grand old acoustic
Bass, drums, piano, and trumpet
Cab Calloway, Count Basie and the beating of a drumstick
Im not certain i was born in the right age
But pondering ifs and or buts is the work of a sage
There is however one thing i know for sure
That in all of time and history, id like to be your cure