I met up with Avram who liked to practice off hours in the automated teller
Jazz saxophone – but he got mugged and they beat the shit out of him, that high IQ
kept him in the clouds unable to grasp the dangers lurking at 3 a.m. – he’s lucky the perp
left him alive after they took his coat, his wallet and stole his horn too
Mangled and beat up, he looked terrible – bruised, black eye, split lip and his arm broken

Nigel endured the city’s dangers by acting as if he were fresh out of the asylum
Over the top, I push it over the top he’d bark and I figured what the hell
psychos – there’s no predicting what they’ll do next so it made sense to act like a kook
Quirky to begin with, Nigel would improvise songs about his mother’s baba gannouj
rancid buttermilk or the Detroit Tigers singing incredibly loud and obnoxiously lo-fi
so as to scare would-be muggers into having second thoughts about lying in ambush
targeting this warbling maniac and attacking him mid-song

Urban cowboy, limping bandaged sax player and a screaming lunatic opera buff
Visualize the three of us tromping through Roxbury at 2 a.m. on our way home
wasted, laughing, singing until some Godiva on a horse rode up while we stood and ogled

X-rated except for a strategically placed holster she threatened us with a semiautomatic
yanked my hat off, took our money then galloped away leaping over a cab
zigzagging into the night leaving us gaping, my youth riding away on an appaloosa