|Impressions of Jazz|
Walking smooth through soft October nights.
In New Orleans. In silent streets.
Your scorched tongue needs a drink
but you ain’t got
no dignity to be seen,
quenching your thirst and agony
over those classy days and lost dreams.
Instead, you linger
between lighted windows
as a noble illusion.
There is a road
that flows and flows up
that restless retreat
to where all the saints are.
Too far, brother.
Too far for your weary feet to reach.
It is time for you to go now,
to float down that shadow alley,
to be consumed
by visions that make you happy
-oh so happy-
for just a little while at least.
The dark is rising
and you’re loving it fine.
That gal is damn fine.
You glide along at moon tempo,
as you turn your back
from the lighter side of the tunnel
and march down to the river.
Sweet Jesus, swing it to the beat of melancholy,
when it all don’t mean a thing.
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