scatsville

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