West End Blues
In a cluttered jazz joint,
suits clutching cigarettes slump into
some goodbye notes.
A squeak. "I said it's tight like this."
Baritone Bobby Brown, "Let it be tight like that, then."
Let it be tight like that.
One siren. One wailing saxophone,
wailing for the men
beat
to death.
Let it be tight like that, then.
Let's take this outside
where the rain goes pitter-patter
to the click of heels,
flicker, lighters light to the beat.
Flicker, guns pop,
Neon flickers, asking Misses Night to dance.
and on the Upper Side some bubblegum boy drinks a soda pop.
But down, down the poor throat of Bobby Brown,
you can hear the West End Blues,
the sad sigh of his smile pressing lips-up.
He strikes up a match;
and there goes the St. James Infirmary in one powerful puff.
Saw my baby there,
Stretched out on the long white table,
So sweet, so cold, so bare.
Let her go, let her go.
The siren tapers off at last call.
The little brown-faced boy,
squeaks once more, "Oh, it's tight like this."
But Baritone Bobby Brown, "No it ain't tight like that either."
