Good morning, blues, good morning, gray dawn,
Good morning, blues, good morning, gray dawn,
Pulling us from morning torpor to slow good love arising,
Pulling us from morning torpor to slow good love arising,
Good morning, love, gray torpor arising
from blues, pulling us to slow dawn, good morning, good morning

You warm from sleep, me in you with no effort.
You warm from sleep, me in you with no effort.
Momentum of morning, we scarcely need move.
Momentum of morning, we scarcely need move.
Warm me with momentum, we scarcely sleep from morning,
You move of need, no effort in you.

We ease out, our wet good sweat mingled.
We ease out, our wet good sweat mingled.
Dogs twitch, stretch, scratch at the door.
Dogs twitch, stretch, scratch at the door.
We scratch at ease, stretch our sweat.
Good dogs, twitch mingled, wet out the door.

Good morning momentum. Dogs scratch you.
Slow blues move with no effort, arising mingled.
Good morning to torpor. We twitch, We stretch out
In warm dawn, gray from wet sleep 
Of ease at the door, pulling our sweat from us.
You scarcely need me, love. Good morning 
                        

A happy ending, so it seems.
The bride is wed, the cad dispatch’d.
Or that’s the way it is in dreams,
A couple evidently matched.

But is the couple really matched?
Last night the bride was with the cad,
The groom-to-be had been dispatch’d
To go grouse-hunting with his dad.
 
To go grouse-hunting with his dad?
Little she knows it’s just a ruse,
And, truth be told, the groom’s the cad.
He’s had his fun, by threes and twos

(The threes a lot more fun than twos),
His bent is for the life immoral.
She knows full well it’s just a ruse—
Game birds stand in for pleasures oral.

Her game lacks none of pleasures oral,
It’s midsummer—a night for dreams.
And so my story has its moral,
A happy ending, so it seems.
                        

In a dream, she sees Lester Young standing naked.
He is as women are to men
in the dream, an invitation,
not as men are to women, intrusion.

He is as women are to men,
This giant to whom all were called “Lady,”
the business of men too often an intrusion,
the saxophone’s echo sweet but troubling.

The echo of one voice, the first called “Lady”
seems to reach her from a distant room,
the echoing saxophone sweet but troubling.
She sits up in bed, as if to see him better.

But now he’s faded to a distant room,
now with the Lady, sweet but troubling.
She sits up in bed, as if to see him better,
as if she hears him, distant, call her “Lady.”

And should she follow? Sweet, but troubling--
in her own home, would she be the intrusion?
In her own dream, might he call her “Lady”?
Could she be to him as women are to men,

or as men are to women, intrusion?
Now the saxophone seems less an invitation,
as she wakes into a cold world of men.
In a dream, she sees Lester Young standing naked.