text: 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
  Theyll 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
  Theres a poppy wreath on a soldiers tomb
  Theres 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 Rousseaus vines
  They go steaming up to Brooklyn Bridge
  Steaming, steaming, steaming up the jungle line