Plaintive tenor ballad why must you be so
mean to me, baby? Why must your tone lilt
whisper hollow, but insistent as though
all the stars tumbled from the sky, were spilt
to measures coaxed to pour out of the bell?
Your breath to my soul, harmony of blues,
and you a ghost that cast me in a spell
of past and pain and nothing left to lose
before the window, drinking at the bar,
or scraping heels along an avenue
stretching into timeless years, nearness far
away from me into the fog of you.
I ain't got nothing but the blues baby,
bitter deep and sweet as muse baby.
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