From our JazzMando buddy Tom Morse, who very much like us, squandered way too much of his youth reading Mad Magazine. We return with some more vintage Lord Buckley:

Lincoln's "New" Gettysburg Address (already sounding like Frank Wakefield)

Four score and like seven years ago our old daddies came on in this scene with a new group, grooved In free kicks, and hip to the Jazz that all cats make it the same. Now we're real hung up in a crazy big hassle, digging whether that group, or any group so grooved and so hip can keep on swinging.

We're making it on a wild spot of that hassle. We've got eyes to tag a little of that spot as a last lay-down pad for those who here conked out so that group might still score. It's frantically cool and jivey that we're on this kick. But in a bigger ribble we can't shake up, we can't sound, we can't even clue in this jazz. The cool cats, with us and down under, who flipped here, have pegged it straighter that we could ever mess with. The squares will never buy this bit, nor dig the lyrics we spiel here; but they can't ever put down what those studs did here. It's for us, the on-cats, who ought to pick up on those still-wailing blues which the off-cats who goofed here have blown so crazily up till now. Man! Like we really ought to be here with eyes fixed on this wild gig that still needs action, that those from those far-out D.O.A.'s we get a little higher on that kick for which they really went and flipped their gaskets; that we take it on to set straight that these cats show not have kicked off square; that this group under God, shall blow a crazy new sound, and that a hot combo of the hipsters, by the hipsters, and for the hipsters, shall not cut out from this scene.

Posted by Ted at October 9, 2008 9:49 AM