Escape

Sing me to sleep when I go West; But sing you, soft and low, No song from the olden masters' Or I shall not want to go: Not Schubert, wondrous harmonist, Not great Beethoven, Grieg nor Liszt, Nor any rare old melodist; For I'd hate the passing so. I'll hate to part with the good green trees And the birds and the soft, kind sky; For I've abiding love for these, And I shall not want to die. But, most of all, shall I doubly grieve For the joys of earth when I have to leave Those melodies to which I cleave When the lust for life runs high. Sing me to sleep when I go west The latest thing you know In jazz; and sing with brutal zest While the saxophones moan low And the squawkers squawk and the banjoes strum To the bang and the boom of the big bass drum; Then I'll come out for Kingdom Come And gladly shall I go.