Beaumarchais, who knew no jazz, makes Figaro say that what can’t be said can be sung—and this applies far more to the sentimental than to the obscene. Think of the incredible, the almost unspeakable idea in the following, presumably spoken by a father to a child:
Down in the City of Sighs and Tears,
Down by the White Light’s Glare,
Down in the something of wasted years,
You’ll find your mamma there!
Or consider the pretty imagery and emotion of I’m Tying the Leaves, as sung by a precocious and abominable child who has been told that mother will die when the leaves begin to fall. It would be easy to say that these songs are gone never to return; but it was only two years ago that They Needed a Songbird in Heaven—so God Took Caruso Away (“idea suggested by George Walter Brown” to the grateful composers). I do not dare to contemplate A Baby’s Prayer at Twilight or to wonder what constituted the Curse of an Aching Heart; but history has left on record the chorus of
My Mother was a Lady
Like yours, you will allow,
And you may have a sister
Who needs protection now;