Here a stretch of coast, achingly beautiful,
Immaculately desolate, thoroughly
Boring gives way to a strophe of usable
Soprano sax solo in a song we
Have all heard before. He was in New Orleans
When they recorded it, and he came right in
—And now, 45 years later, the sea greens
Are gone, there's no sky, no sun, only him
And his pretensions to Sidney Bechet
And the whole fabled lore of the Beatles.
Maybe some jelly beans were left on the tray
As he looked at the changes, pay was arranged,
The ambient baffles were moved into range
And he fingered the runs he might play.
