There's fairness in changing blood for septet's
guardian rhythm， the horn blossoming
into cadenza. No good pimp's scowl， his
baby's voice ruined sweet for the duration.
Yes， these predictable fifths. O， the blues
is all about slinging those low tales out
the back door （sing： child pried open on that
stained floor）。 O， Billie hollers way down dirt
roads （sing： woman on the verge of needled
logic）。 She's aware——yeah， I'm going to
kiss some man's sugared fist tonight. O， this
tableau's muse， a Lady cautioning me：
Just tough this thing out， girl. Sweat through the jones.
Don't ask for nothing. Spit your last damned note