The Blues flattened my fedora into a beret,
stole my zippy-de-doo-die-ay,
gave me a saxophone,
told me, “blow it kid, you can never go home.”
I keep snapping my fingers to invisible sounds
and I squeak confused the squares to confound,
it’s times like these I do believe,
the Blues have got me Beat.
My Shakespeare reads like Kerouac,
I bought a ticket to Paris though you never can go back,
I tore a Brooks Brothers suit to hang it on my door
and there’s two guys lying on my living room floor
arguing whether a white man can sing the blues,
or is it all just some 20th century repeat?
And that’s when you know –
the Blues have got you Beat.
I sold my home and bought a club,
where I sell espresso and absinthe.
My girlfriend was born in leotards
and they’ve never been rinsed – since.
I’ve shaved my head, grown a goatee,
I’m starting to talk phonetically,
this phone call’s coming to you from me
‘cuz brother – I must insist,
oh sister, don’t resist,
‘cuz in case you just missed
the ineffable fact I lay before you Jack
then I must repeat
the Blues,
the Blues,
I believe the Blues
… have got me Beat.
tattoo
tattoo the outline of love onto your imagination
etch your name on swirling winds, blow away
the sand of the desert to see what is written beneath
erase your epitaph, replace it with a date
of your choosing; ink is mightier than the world



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