| Ran to Penn Station and mad my train
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| Immediately fell asleep until I heard
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| The conductor say: «Next stop
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| Where-it's-Atsville.»
|
| Sunlight on the Hudson an amber glow
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| Like «Crepuscule with Nellie» dialed
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| Down low
|
| When I reached my stop
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| 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:
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| «Jack, you are now in Scatsville.»
|
| It’s the language of madmen
|
| When you talk through your hat
|
| My Eleventh Commandment’s:
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| «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 |