Tin Pan Poem by Dave SmithWhite

I'll take the room that is heartbreak,
where only the lonely will dwell.
You can have suite California,
at the old Tin Pan Alley Hotel.

The place is run down in disorder;
the plumbing is starting to smell.
But few have the means to afford the
old Tin Pan Alley Hotel.

And the doorman: no faint Hart, is Rodgers.
He lets loose the chains I can tell,
to Gershwin and his artful dodges,
at the old Tin Pan Alley Hotel.

Check ID and ides with the Porter.
Cole knows all the outs and the ins.
He draws a fine bath from the water,
once favoured by Irving Berlin.

They let you break rocks in the parlour,
and hammer stone for a spell;
as wildly Oscar plays Mahler,
at the old Tin Pan Alley Hotel.

You note that the waiter seems haunted,
by his guilt and richness of style.
Not rudeness but curtness unwanted;
not vermin, just German, and Weill!

And the hopboy is nervous, no Coward;
he's known as the English Noel.
He sings for the masses empowered,
at the old Tin Pan Alley Hotel.

Though the man with the baton's, a Lerner;
he still makes the music swell.
‘Cause he knows a good little earner,
at the old Tin Pan Alley Hotel.

He points to the legendary Satchmo,
who sucks in the joint at the bell.
The jazz is hot liquid and macho,
at the old Tin Pan Alley Hotel.


As the Christmas lights dim, a little darker,
a Diamond kneels to the King.
The sweet gentle lilt of Sedaka;
the earth moves in carole and swing.

Leave costumes and props to the Taylor;
his fire and rain upkeep excels.
For verses are fresh and less staler,
at the old Tin Pan Alley Hotel.

New guests like Webber and Sondheim,
rub shoulders with mixed clientele.
As Rice papers over the strict rhyme,
at the old Tin Pan Alley Hotel.

They gave us, all our tomorrows.
They saved us for ourselves.
They brought us out of the shadows,
to the old Tin Pan Alley Hotel.

They freed us, all of our sorrows,
and make us somebody else;
the licence of cheap lyric borrows,
of the old Tin Pan Alley Hotel.

If you give me the key, Mister Arlen,
I'll be over the rainbow as well.
My musical veins should not harden,
at the old Tin Pan Alley Hotel.

I don't know too much about chorus,
or what should be baiting the hook.
However the fans may adore us,
I still must get on to your books.

So save me that room, Mister Perkins.
The mean streets are lonely as hell.
You know I've the full and crude workin's,
for the old Tin Pan Alley Hotel.