The Moonlight Cafe

The Music that I hear,
Is like a wild headache
For a masochist,
So wild and pleasing.

Men in hats play it,
Hiding their faces
Behind black glass shields,
Through which only they can see.

Others in smart suits,
Like bored morses,
Chatter to each other
Ignoring the trumpet's scream.

The double bass tries to be heard,
Its master tortures the strings,
But no matter what he does
All that he gets is a low grumble.

The sax, like a lost lover,
Gives out cries of pain,
So long and painful
That it makes us want to cry.

What is this music
That they play?
Which makes us cry,
Makes us think of the streets?

The name alone makes us see,
The screaming gold trumpet,
The crying sax
And the grumbling contrabass.

Jazz is the word,
The meaning of this show,
Now return to your chatter,
Do not let the magic go.