There was an old cafe in North Beach,
its food tasted less than boiled leather;
but after the world war,
came bawdy Lenoir,
transformed it with liquor and free speech.
There was a young rustic named Henri,
who had large holes in his pockets.
When he took over the café,
bohemians so they say
clamored snap for a radical whoopee.
Along came a young rover named Neal,
who loved to drive autos cross-country;
his friends Jack and Allen,
they scribbled it all down,
spinning beat-motion on worn rubber wheels.
America has a taste for the highway,
a downward thump pause in jazz cool bebop.
Tribute and tears did trend,
when the asphalt did end
in a dark basement, kitchen sink byways.
Came a joyful woman named Janet,
re-caller from deep shadow legacy
shined golden cuffs to drink.
I write to thank and wink,
Vesuvio our love never planned it.