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Blues Not Jazz
She took her latte
And headed for a corner,
Stopped, turned and said,
Have you ever had one of those
Damn days when you tumble out of bed
Alone, to the deciduous turned gold, brown
And dead, the rain strafing your roof like bits
Of left over lead from some crazy war and your
Mother is dying miles away and you’re crying and you
Do not really know exactly what for. Have you ever had
One of those damn days? Before I could answer she added,
Impossible, if you had you would be playing blues not jazz.
Stephen Nesbitt ©
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