Michael Franks, N.O.R.E. — Scatsville

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Ran to Penn Station and mad my train
Immediately fell asleep until I heard
The conductor say: «Next stop
Where-it’s-Atsville.»
Sunlight on the Hudson an amber glow
Like «Crepuscule with Nellie» dialed
Down low
When I reached my stop
The platform sign said: «Scatsville.»
I said: «Wait!» and I turned around
But the doors where closed and the train
Was gone
And I though: «This ain’t
Where-I-hang-my-Hatsville.»
And the question I asked of each passerby
Was met with the same singsong reply:
«Jack, you are now in Scatsville.»

It’s the language of madmen
When you talk through your hat
My Eleventh Commandment’s:
«Thou Shalt Not Scat!»

Mr. Feather sighed and he seemed
Depressed
When I complained of scat on my
Blindfold Test
So how
How’d I get to Scatsville?
Live every saxophonist who play bop
It’s a little habit that hard to stop
One day you find yourself in Scatsville
With all the cats in Scatsville