Wednesday, 11 September 2013


Resounding through night streets of murky, damp & dark,
As softly as padding footsteps, of the cur who cannot bark,
The dulcet, sultry notes, dancing like moths around dim lamp,
Hovering in dimly lit doorways, as the tiptoeing of old tramp.

Peeping through rosy windows, I can see her softly swaying,
Old Deep South, smoky blues band, hot rhythms softly playing,
Eyes half closed, lips parted & painted, moistly & musically red,
Mingling with old rye, old words infiltrate, deep within my head.

Mississippi soul-sound, drifting smoke & drunken late night mist,
Old yearning songs, lust & red wine, all languidly & moistly kissed,
Caressing bodies & souls, legs, arms & hot lips enticingly entwined,
All that jazz, locked in lost memories, of musicals now enshrined.

Tiptoeing tones, over melomaniacs, young lovers & serious drinkers,
Notes caressing souls of old loners, of dreamers & faraway thinkers,
Through the dimly lit doorways of blue skat & all that sizzling old jazz,
Enfolding downtown boozies, passing by floozies, in old razzamatazz.

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