by The Conscientious Reporter

Created on: May 16, 2008

Two colored boys named Joe and Pete,
Were born and raised on Trumbell Street.
Now both these Cats, like it or lump it,
Both could play, the great jazz trumpet.

They played at all the best clubs in town,
Like the Rooster Tail and Old Felts Lounge.
One day a club manager heard 'em play,
And said "Them Cats will pack my club some day."

He talked to them after the curtains fell,

And said, "Boys, your good as hell."
"I run a club in New Orleans,
Where the drinks are good, and the rooms are clean".

"I want you boys to play my club down south,
A sound like yours spreads by word of mouth.
There's just one thing to consider, and this ain't no joke,
Fellas at this club don't take well to colored folk."

Joe shook his head, and said "Sir no thanks,
I've heard the trouble southerners give black Yanks."
But Pete he said, "When they hear my soul,
They'll be standing in the doorway takin' toll."

So the white man said to Pete "Boy your hired,
For this is what I've long desired."
Joe looked at Pete and shook his head,
And said "Brother, when I see you next you'll be dead."

Next night Pete arrived in New Orleans,
Where the drinks were good, and the rooms were clean.
The manager said to Pete real proud,
"Them boys are drunk and its a sold out crowd."

Pete waited for his cue and took the stage,
When he started playing the crowd became enraged.
They dragged him from the stage outside,
And beat him up till poor Pete died.

When news of this reached Detroit City,
Most folks said, my what a pity.
Put Joe he said, they killed my friend,
And I'm gonna see they pay for it in the end.

Next night in New Orleans the same people were there,
Laughing about last night's affair.
Then all of a sudden, there was a great big boom,
And the front door flew across the room.

Fifty black men came through the door,
Looking ready to settle the score.
In the front was Joe, his eyes blood red,
The look on his face said he knew big Pete was dead.

The club was silent as he took the stage,
And in his eye's you could fear his rage.
To his lips he raised that horn,
Displaying the talent in which he was born.

He blew that trumpet for an hour or more,
Till his sweat was rollin on the floor.
His body began shak'in, his lips became dried,
Then he sat right down and cried.

Joe looked around the room, and then he said,
"That tribute was for Pete who you left for dead."
Joe left without hurting anyone in that place,
Leaving all to question who is the superior race.

Joe plays his music still in Detroit City,
Where his tunes can be raw, rough and gritty.
Each time he plays, he dedicates his evening to his buddy Pete,
Who played the great jazz trumpet with him as kids on Trumbell Street.

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