Fingers flying, The notes jumped around
Running in circles, going crazy. Those were his favorite.
He always like to wail And scream with all his might.
His tribute to Maynard Ferguson. Those were his songs.
But I always liked it, When he played slow jazz,
Especially when he improvised
See, those were his notes.
No one else wrote them. No one else dictated them.
And it was there,
In his slow syncopation, His vibratos and legato,