Rhapsody On a Theme By Gershwin

The train to Boston goes clonkity dong, clonkity ding, and ever the handy hack Gershwin takes up the rhythm and makes it sing. Rhapsodic rhapsodies in jazz mode stomp among the carriage silverware and glasses, makes them tink, jitter and chatter to the shoe shined suits that doze along to the whitling of whistled tunes. The moon necks in, illumines a fountain pen as he, jotting, heels pumping up and down knees’ a ‘cracking, sketches his syncopated sounds. It’s coming together except for the molasse’s, the liquorish stick, added later with a whisky-wet wail, then the whole city skyline spoke it up, ears flapped, as the schtick stuck. A small combo took to tuxedos, added more chairs for symphonic fiddlers. Chronic indigestion is relieved nationwide. Middle-aged men wear their fedoras more rakishly, ladies take to the streets in sheer nylon. Del-eez and dives jive to the pulse and swing of a scrawny Jewish guy hammering black notes together as if he were born in catfish row.