Ginsberg's in a corner with Basho,
They're drinking sweet rice wine;
Monk vamps, Chet and Bird blow,
The music's cool, so fine.
Fitzgerald's standing at the bar,
Drinking with Hemingway;
Willie Blake's tight with a seraphim,
They're talking Judgement Day.
Sinatra's schmoozing with Dean Martin,
With Sammy and the Rat Pack;
Warhol's hanging with Dellasandro
Burrough's cruising with Kerouac.
Sam Beckett, Francis Bacon
And the Pre-Raphaelite Gang are there;
Along with Elvis and Leonardo,
Rousseau and Apollinaire.
Bogart and Brecht are playing five-card stud,
With Einstein and Lao Tze;
Watched by a straight in a Brook's Bros. suit,
Who's with the C.l.A.
'Round midnight the joint's really jumpin',
And Kafka gets down with Bardot;
Nijinski does the Soft Shoe Shuffle,
Descarte grooves with Greta Garbo.
Harpo Marx and Chico are busy
Chasing Mae West around;
But Groucho's busy writing limericks
With Eliot and Ezra Pound.
Rothko and Jackson Pollock
Are both doing their thing;
B. B. King plays some elegant riffs,
Jung reads the Tao Te Ching.
Fidel flies in from Havana,
Hands out a few cigars;
Then splits with Dylan Thomas,
To hit some Downtown bars.
Picasso moves around the room
With a Polaroid to record the scene;
Surprises Brando with Sylvia Plath
And Auden with Jimmy Dean.
And I'm making out with Marilyn
Who arrived with JFK;
But Jack had to cut out early,
Mr.President couldn't play
So we sit there and I tell her,
That I really dig her the most;
And before the party's over,
We take off for the Coast.
Drive down the Pacific Highway,
In a flame-red Thunderbird,
Hit the beach as dawn comes up,
Soft light, soft breeze, soft words.
Drink champagne, smoke a while
Then turn the T-Bird and go.
Drive home as the surf's rising,
Talking about DiMaggio.