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.