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 20^th 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.