Trumpets or coronets, or trumbones, trumpbones, trumpets,
NYC, with its depths, its shoals, its market of cool, where you can get anything you want, ‘cept Alice, or Allanis, or Atlantis, or a good Frank, or a hard bed, to commune with your mother.
The ocean is mother.
In Madison Square Garden, not that far from Grand Central Station, where you can get a park bench, a beautiful garden, to fall asleep to, in the perfume of flowers, a salt smell perhaps to preserve, and tall and perfectly black people do hoops.
Spam of Human Affection 
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