Can The Autumn Leaves Just Fly Away With Me?

It is cold outside and the pianos are frozen, Jazz musicians stand by the dozen as drugged as, Their bright glimmering grey brass instruments, My heart flies recklessly to and fro bobbing and weaving, Laughing at a chick in a short skirt, in high heels graduating; Peeling away softly with a song confused in monotonic happy-ness, The dull drum of love pounds itself to a lull, with clean satire; I’d rather be somewhere else than here.