Anything I Can Sing, I

Every Writer At The New Yorker Is Smarter Than Me.

The Hollow Horn Plays Wasted Words, Proves To Warn That He Not Busy Being Born Is Busy Dying.

Crimson Flames Tied Through My Ears Rollin' High And Mighty Traps Pounced With Fire On Flaming Roads Using Ideas As My Maps "we'll Meet On Edges, Soon," Said I Proud 'neath Heated Brow. Ah, But I Was So Much Older Then, I'm Younger Than That Now. Half-wracked Prejudice Leaped Forth "rip Down All Hate," I Screamed Lies That Life Is Black And White Spoke From My Skull. I Dreamed Romantic Facts Of Musketeers Foundationed Deep, Somehow. Ah, But I Was So Much Older Then, I'm Younger Than That Now.

People Talk About Frank Sinatra All The Time - And They Should Talk About Frank - But He Had The Greatest Arrangers. They Worked For Him In A Different Kind Of Way Than They Worked For Other People. They Gave Him Arrangements That Are Just Sublime On Every Level. And He, Of Course, Could Match That Because He Had This Ability To Get Inside Of The Song In A Sort Of A Conversational Way. Frank Sang To You, Not At You, Like So Many Pop Singers Today. Even Singers Of Standards.

Walkin' Through The Leaves Fallin' From The Trees, Feelin' Like A Stranger Nobody Sees.