Dicing with Donna (Donna Lee)

Back home in Indiana
He plays those bebop bass lines
with a rapid tempo hurl
and it’s all Curly’s girl
can do to keep up with the changes.
Pretty Donna Lee
sittin’ in the sidelines
Smilin’ at her Daddy’o,
heating the beat
while Miles swings along
and let’s old Bird take the lead.

Earlier, sooner, later, now
A skitter skatter,
pitter patter
virtuoso harmonies
from the thin men.
And old Fats wasn’t so old.
ice freezing blood red at 26,
Indiana spawning
chromatic melodies
to make your toes curl.

Miles, sweet nineteen,
he’d been kissed,
don’t tell me not,
sliced and diced
that solo sizzle,
gave birth to Bird’s
cool bebop drizzle
like rain drops
fast on a window pane.
No music so fine,
no sound so sublime.
A dime each time it’s played
by fresh young dukes
out to nuke the opposition.

Jaco’s solo speed undone
His fingers hazing, trailing some
The time all tempo-fused and random
The conga questioning rhythm grows
What to do when Donna’s done.
What indeed? The thread’s unspun.