The strains of the band were fading, As they marched down Bourbon street, "When the Saints Go Marching In" was his favorite. When he played it he never missed a beat. The oldtimers' band marched without him. The old jazz hero, six feet below. His life was love through his trumpet. But joining the saints now, he had to go. His dear old sweetheart once sang jazz with him, While he played the sweetest notes. He held his arm around her side, When she stood at the microphone's throat. They weren't rich with money, Never made it big, Struggled from town to town, Following gig to gig. But happy? Yes they were slap-happy, The two of them just travellin' along, The gray-haired lady knelt with one red rose in her hand, At the grave of her lost song. ~ © Dreamer (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net) ~ November 12, 2003 If you enjoyed this page, check these out: Sledding A Christmas Carol Love Brings Feelings When Santa Was A Boy Snowballing And.......for many others, click the link for HOME. Home: Writers' Corner Index