Ran to Penn Station and mad my train Immediately fell asleep until I heard The conductor say: "Next stop Where-it's-Atsville." Sunlight on the Hudson an amber glow Like "Crepuscule with Nellie" dialed Down low When I reached my stop The platform sign said: "Scatsville." I said: "Wait!" and I turned around But the doors where closed and the train Was gone And I though: "This ain't Where-I-hang-my-Hatsville." And the question I asked of each passerby Was met with the same singsong reply: "Jack, you are now in Scatsville." It's the language of madmen When you talk through your hat My Eleventh Commandment's: "Thou Shalt Not Scat!" Mr. Feather sighed and he seemed Depressed When I complained of scat on my Blindfold Test So how How'd I get to Scatsville? Live every saxophonist who play bop It's a little habit that hard to stop One day you find yourself in Scatsville With all the cats in Scatsville