Scrambled eggs and whiskey
in the false-dawn light. Chicago，
a sweet town， bleak， God knows，
but sweet. Sometimes. And
weren't we fine tonight？
When Hank set up that limping
treble roll behind me
my horn just growled and I
thought my heart would burst.
And Brad M. pressing with the
soft stick and Joe-Anne
singing low. Here we are now
in the White Tower， leaning
on one another， too tired
to go home. But don't say a word，
don't tell a soul， they wouldn't
understand， they couldn't， never
in a million years， how fine，
how magnificent we were
in that old club tonight.