Smokey blue notes, plaintive,

drifting slowly though the air;

the sound of sax and trumpet,

sweet honeyed voices there.

Dark and shadowed, tables covered,

with drinks and ashtrays over full;

Diz on the trumpet blowing,

those smokey notes with so much soul.

Hap was on the ivories,

slapping out that plaintive call;

and she and I were dancing,

there in that smokey music hall.

Oh, memories of days in the Big Easy,

down along the Quarter’s clubs;

humid nights of love and passion,

wrapped blue inside my baby’s love.