As if Jazz made love to parrot from Havana and gave us Machito,

Who gave us Tito.

Oye Como Va

Flutes whistle up and away,

Backed by rhythmic horns, bright and clean.

All following the percussionists, all of them,

The bongo and timbales players, steady while on parade.

Bamp, bump, bamp, bump-bamp. Baaam—bamp, bomp.

And this is how Jazz lives on, despite her fading name,

In the lush mountains, white beaches, and rain forests of Latin American, from Cuba to Brazil.

May she find her way back to the land of her birth, in whatever form she please.