And All That Jazz...

The morning sun shines on the helmets a-gleaming,
the countryside basks in the warm sun of spring;
with eyes closed it's easy to lie back a-dreaming -
    life don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing.

The sky overhead has no part in our trying;
you only can see a few birds on the wing
that simply sing out for pure zest as they're flying:
    it don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing.

The birds flown away, there is silence around us.
It's almost as though I can hear people sing -
it's tension and waiting's effects that astound us -
    life don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing.

A long-drawn-out drone makes us scramble for cover.
The first bullets fly, this fine day has its sting...
I'm trying to think what I'll do when it's over -
    it don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing.

But I can't stop my ears to block out my mates' crying,
the overwrought guns or the losers' last fling,
the shouts of the wounded, the gasps of the dying -
    life don't mean a thing.