I am the oven with the iron door
I feel the baker pace the concrete floor
He brings the yeast and the organic grain
While outside falls a heavy Chicago rain
Sift the flour while the trumpet plays low
Warm the oven let the golden crust grow
Bass line walking through the basement heat
Rhymes of sugar on a midnight street
He talks to ferns in a Latin tongue
Where the old ivy and the moss have clung
He calls them Monstere a deliciosa
While the jazz band plays a slow nocturna
He kneads the dough with a steady hand
The finest gluten in the Windy Land
The smell of sourdough and toasted rye
Under a charcoal and a cloudy sky
Sift the flour while the trumpet plays low
Warm the oven let the golden crust grow
Bass line walking through the basement heat
Rhymes of sugar on a midnight street
The Rhodes piano has a velvet sound
The heavy vibrations shake the frozen ground
He treats the soil like a holy thing
Waiting for the winter wheat to spring
The horn player hits a high falsetto note
While the steam rises from a linen coat
I hold the heat in my blackened steel frame
The night baker knows every seedling's name
Sift the flour while the trumpet plays low
Warm the oven let the golden crust grow
Bass line walking through the basement heat
Rhymes of sugar on a midnight street
Just a pinch of salt. Let it rise.
Keep the rhythm slow.
Midnight street.
