There was a man and he would see
Two others when they came for tea.
To talk at tea the two men came.
The third of three would do the same.
They spoke of many varied things
Of travels, love and Krauts and Kings
Of life and death; of hates and fears;
Of power and plague; of towers and tears.
Most times the rage grew piping hot
As one thought one thing, two thought not.
Yet disagreeing, still they chose
To bow t’each other as they rose.
They’d put aside their diff – er - ence
To each pick up their instruments.
Could discord make this sound so soon?
Can men so quickly change their tune?
Is music then a higher truth
Than words and argument and proof?
Three men, a washboard, bass and brass
Tap, scat and pick to cover the scars.