A saxophone player wails outside a café,
Taking request for his music to play.
The blues from his horn sings out bittersweet.
Coins and some bills in a hat at his feet,
With standing room only, the stage was the street.

A mime painted gold, another one green,
Not pancake white, as is most often seen,
Acting their parts with no props or stage,
Coins and some bills in a hat was their wage.
With standing room only, the street was their stage.

The clickity clack of his taps on the street,
He danced as if magic were guiding his feet.
An old bayou tune did his harmonica play.
Coins and some bills in a hat was his pay.
With standing room only, the street was his stage.

Their solemn dirge-march drove through the crowd.
Slowly then faster as their soft tones turned loud.
Then wildly they burst into a Dixieland beat.
With curb standers only, their stage was the street.