Oh, I am the lonely Jazz-Man,
Bowing hard most every day;
The Sax, Trombone, and Trumpet
Won’t persuade these folks to stay,
But still I heave my utmost
To try and earn their applause –
Yet the conversation spurs hesitation
And my award is an awkward pause.
I am a Martyred Musician,
A prophet on the stage.
The skill I had in younger years
Has grown untuned with age.
I used to love my instrument,
But now can’t stand its sight
‘Cause my huff-and-puff don’t amount to snuff
Or sympathy for my plight.
Oh, I am the ragged Blues Boy,
Playing toot-toot on my horn.
The only pleasure left in life
I find jerking off to porn.
Every hour I see chairs filled up
As full as my jar of tips,
Which is to say, in a kinder way,
This is a House of Drips.
I stand, the begotten Swing King,
A heartthrob come to pass.
The dough I once made naturally
I make half to bust my ass.
My serenades all are old hat,
My riffs far past their prime –
So here I sing, playing my own heart strings
As I weep my deafened rhyme.
Morning's Early Dark 