Yellow lights singing the same song..
A pyramid, shining upon a table so strong.
Smoke rising to the ceiling, drunks weighing down the legs of those tables.
And a singer.. To break that passion smile..No one is able.

The saxophone is blinding her eyes from any sad sight.
Her intoxicating voice is sending minds to sleep, it's a rare might.
The fluid of Sleepers and Beggars and Fighters
Is flowing like water, putting out all the lighters.
The smoke is a veil, a true clog for this bar.
It keeps out the fake ones, or just the wannabees that are
Just there for the feeling, not there for this song.
"Don't insult the singer, don't come here to be..wrong."

Those are the sluddering words of these drunks and masterminds.
They're there for the music, nothing else, of any kinds.
The music is their passion, their comfort in this world.
Or maybe just a dream, made alive by this lil' girl.
Her voice keeps on draggin the song to the end.
Not bothered for a moment, there's no one here who might offend.

Not a face to be afraid of, cuz there's no one here to be seen.
These men has got their hats on, as in many singers dream.
Down here in this lil' cellar, there's nothing here but ears.
Down here people are listening, down here no one faces fears.
This down here is an oasis, A jazzclub, I might add.
For those of you who didn't realise, Oh please don't make me mad.

This down here, the cellar with smoke as a ceiling fog.
And yellow lamps that hang from it, and outside sits a dog.
This down here is place for music, and alcohol is consumed.
This down here is my home, and all of it my perfume.