| Lead Belly’s in the background
|
| Being drowned out by the grind
|
| He’s singing ‘bout 'Rock Island Line'
|
| Nobody seems to pay him any mind
|
| Bestsellers and bookshelves
|
| Full of self-help printed word
|
| Some faint, elegance is heard
|
| Now was that Ellington or Bird?
|
| And has it really come to this?
|
| Can ignorance be bliss?
|
| I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop
|
| Jazz at the bookstore
|
| And Blues in the coffee shop
|
| Jazz at the bookstore
|
| And Blues in the coffee shop
|
| There’s a man standing at the crossroads
|
| With a dark roast in his hand
|
| He’s livin' in white yuppy land
|
| Over by the milk and sugar stand
|
| And have I really come for this
|
| Cup of caffeinated bliss?
|
| So we browse around all over town
|
| Sipping coffees that we can’t pronounce
|
| Meanwhile in the Blues Cemetery
|
| All the coffins commence to bounce, bounce
|
| Lead Belly’s in the cold ground
|
| Rolling over in his grave
|
| The hard road where so many slaved
|
| Is now so smooth and paved
|
| And has it really come to this?
|
| Can ignorance be bliss?
|
| I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop
|
| Jazz at the bookstore
|
| And Blues in the coffee shop
|
| Jazz at the bookstore
|
| And Blues in the coffee shop
|
| Jazz at the bookstore
|
| And Blues in the coffee shop |