And after three days of drinkin' with nare a love,

I just get an inklin' to go on home. 

So I'm walking down cold harbor lane,

my head hung low,

3 or 4 in the mornin',

the Suns comin' up and the birds are out singin',

I let myself into my pad,

windin' my way up that spiral staircase and stretch out nice on my chesterfield. 

Pithecanthropus Erectus already on the CD player and I just push that remote button to sublimity,

and listen to that sweet sculptural rythms of Charles Mingus. 

And JR Montorose and Jackie MacClaine and Jay Rett's unknown saxaphones and,

the sound makes it's way out the window mingling with the traffic noises outside the room. 

All of a sudden I'm overcome by a feeling of brief mortality.

Cause I'm gettin' on in the world,

comin' up on 41 years,

41 stony,

gray steps towards the grave,

you know the box,

awaits it's grizzly load.

Now I'm gonna be food for worms.

And just like Charles Mingus when he wrote that beautiful piece of music for every father,

every mother,

I say so long Eric,

so long John Coletrain and Charles Mingus,

 so long Duke Ellington and Leslie Young,

so long Billy Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald,

so long Jimmy Reed,

so long Muddy Waters,

and so long Howlin' Wolf.

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