The orange without juice,
Summer without sun.
The Blues close your eyes,
And tunnel down your throat to the bottom of your tub,
It scrapes the edges clean, until you moan and ache. ache
Blues paint Picasso’s beauty,
Sing Ray Charles’ melodies,
Makes a grown man cry.
The Blues are the most human thing about us.
The bird whose lost its baby to a bully of a wind,
Could never chirp the blues,
No fly squished on the window,
No blood cell.
I walk into a speakeasy,
When the times are tough.
I let the bartender serve me a stiff drink,
And after awhile, I let him pull an overcoat over my back.
Because the Blues are caring,
The blues know sadness,
Better than an astronomer sees the stars.