Little Alex used to sing at the Blue Note.
Like a squat lizard, he lolled his head
in slow anticipation of the driving beat: (And he sang)
Iambic pentameter , honey, is like no beat at all.
Iambic pentameter -- ooh -- is like no beat at all.
Give me anapestic boogie or cool dactylic crawl.
He played a Fender guitar, sounded like B. B.'s
Lucille, and had a harp playing sidekick
who'd blow so loud, light bulbs popped and hounddogs squealed. ___________________________(And he blew)
Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
Old Harpo rushes in where angels will not tread.
Alex plays like magic, and Harpo blows 'em dead.
Alex's fingers strangled that guitar. It screamed
in pain and joy -- in ecstacy, baby. Made folks
squirm and shout, drink their glasses dry. (And he played)
How vain are all our glories, all of our pains,
Lawdy, how vain are our glories, and vain are our pains,
Unless good sense helps us keep what beauty gains.
The way he played, some said, the devil must've called
his hand or God was putting Little Alex
through audition for his gig with the heavenly band. (And he sang)
A wit's a feather, and a chief is a rod
Oh, yea, a wit's a feather, and a chief, a chief is just a rod.
An honest Man's the noblest work of God.
Little Alex disappeared one midnight after his second set.
Harpo searched the streets and the alleys, the bars
and the all-night greasy spoons, but he ain't found Alexander yet.
So Harpo's harmonica got rusty because he just weeps and moans;
he still hangs out at the Blue Note nearly every night
and tries to believe that, as Alex said, Whatever is, is right.