The Jungle Line - Joni Mitchell

    Rousseau walks on trumpet paths
    Safaris to the heart of all that jazz
    Through I bars and girders-through wires and pipes
    The mathematic circuits of the modern nights
    Through huts, through Harlem, through jails and gospel pews
    Through the class on Park and the trash on Vine
    Through Europe and the deep deep heart of Dixie blue
    Through savage progress cuts the jungle line

    In a low-cut blouse she brings the beer
    Rousseau paints a jungle flower behind her ear
    Those cannibals-of shuck and jive
    They'll eat a working girl like her alive
    With his hard-edged eye and his steady hand
    He paints the cellar full of ferns and orchid vines
    And he hangs a moon above a five-piece band
    He hangs it up above the jungle line

    The jungle line, the jungle line
    Screaming in a ritual of sound and time
    Floating, drifting on the air-conditioned wind
    And drooling for a taste of something smuggled in
    Pretty women funneled through valves and smoke
    Coy and bitchy, wild and fine
    And charging elephants and chanting slaving boats
    Charging, chanting down the jungle line

    There's a poppy wreath on a soldier's tomb
    There's a poppy snake in a dressing room
    Poppy poison-poppy tourniquet
    It slithers away on brass like mouthpiece spit
    And metal skin and ivory birds
    Go steaming up to Rousseau's vines
    They go steaming up to Brooklyn Bridge
    Steaming, steaming, steaming up the jungle line

    Marco Giunco
    Work Basket Music Words