Milords and Miladies of the world of people
most restfully and most humbly
and with the deepest reverence
for the great and precious American Saint
Abraham Lincoln.
I shall translate in the modern sematic of the hip,
this new zig-zag sematic,
his beloved Gettysburg Address.
Lincoln himself, a great lover of humor and beauty,
would understand
and condone, I'm certain, this prelude to the address.
Now let me hip
you cats and kitties just how the scene went down.
Dig.
Every
cat that swings with the rhythm of love of life
has some certain cat that he
digs more than he does the next cat.
Now, you see that cat over there by
the tree?
Well he's a G.O.T. Washington cat.
He digs duckin' the flow
and stoppin' the woe.
But the cat next to him, he's a Benny Franklin
cat.
He digs watchin' his cash and coolin' his stash.
And the cat
right next to him with the feather in his hat.
He's an Eisenhower kiddie.
He digs, "Let's not play the fool and lose the cool."
But dat pretty
chick right next to him,
wid da violet eyes and da crazy look,
she's a
Sinatra chick.
She digs, "Sweet rhythm swings the world."
But me -
I'm a Lincoln Cat.
I dig old sweet long lanky non-stop Abe.
"Lanky
Linc" dey call da cat back in dem days.
Well Lanky Linc went to a
speechafyin' one time
and had a little MIS-understandin'.
Dere was an LP
type talkin' cat named Eddy Everet.
And dis here cat got up on de podium and
wailed away
and beat on his chops for so long and so loud
that he shaved
the place twenty-seven times,
rearranged it nine, and adjust it twice,
and da cat is still up dere beatin' on his chops,
and Lanky Linc is
sittin' down in da bleachers
goofin' with his scratch pad,
tryin' to get
somethin' down.
And he's gettin' somethin down.
But, what he's
gettin' down ain't movin' him.
But when dey called old Lanky Linc up to
de podium
and he dug all dem cats and kiddies swingin' on the green sward,
great love look come on his Saint face,
and he put dis issue down to
'em, he say:
Four big hits and seven licks ago,
our before-daddies
swung forth upon this sweet groovey land
a jumpin', wailin', stompin',
swingin' new nation,
hip to the sweet groove of liberty
and solid sent
upon the Ace lick dat all cats and kiddies,
red, white, or blue, is created
level in front.
We are now hung with a king size main-day Civil Drag,
soundin' whether this nation or any up there nation,
so hip and so solid
sent can stay with it all the way.
We have stomped out here to the
hassle site
of some of the worst jazz blown in the entire issue.
Gettys-mother-burg.
We are here to turn on a small soil stash
of the before-mentioned hassle site
as a final sweet sod pad for those
who laid it down and left it there
so that this jumpin' happy beat might
blow forever-more.
And we all dig that this is the straightest lick.
But diggin' it harder from afar we cannot mellow,
we cannot put down
the stamp of the lord on this sweet sod
because the strong non-stop studs,
both diggin' it and dug under it, who hassled here
have mellowed it with
such a wild mad beat
that we can hear it, but we can't touch it.
Now
the world cats will short dig nor long stash in their wigs
what we are
beatin' our chops around here,
but it never can successively shade what they
vonced here.
It is for us the swingin' to pick up the dues
of these
fine studs who cut out from here
and fly it through to Endsville.
It is
hipper for us to be signifyin' to the glorious gig
that we can't miss with
all these bulgin' eyes,
that from all these A-stamp studs we double our love
kick, too,
that righteous ride for which these hard cats sounded
the
last nth bone of the beat of the bell.
That we here want it struck up
straight for all to dig
that these departed studs shall not have split in
vain,
and that this nation under the great swingin' Lord
shall swing up
a whopper of endless Mardi Gras,
and that the big law by you straights,
from you cats,
and for you kiddies,
shall not be scratched from the
big race.
And there's why I'm a Lincoln Cat.
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