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Solitude Of Jazz
In this misty night, I take another direction into the
 midnight blues, and the off sets of the light makes
 me undress the cotton club and its heights, so if 
I sit for a moment to figure out, what image shall 
possess my mike in its own delight, midnight blues
 that wear its on fragrance of love, and the mighty
 horns that suffice the skies, and the flowers that
 gives of the spirits that once pledge through the
 night, listen and you shall hear the voice of the 
past, Mama I want to sing, Bessie smith begins
 to grown At Last my love has come along, and 
the sweet smell of Lena Horn play that jazz, and
 the mountain to freedom when she walked through
 the front door,   I
                                    sit with my horn, blowing on until

                                    the morning dawn, emphasize with the sound of 
black Jazz, I herd a hum above the moon, I played
 the script until my fingers bleed, oh the sway of
 the jazz, completely took me to another side of
 town, Droning a drowsy syncopated note, tapping
 my feet to the beat, a bottle of bud, and figurate
 indulge, but their was no interaction in my solitude of jazz, 
Louie Armstrong, don’t blame me if I skip a beat
Billy sing the blues, high hill shoes, flower that
Dazzle as she sings the blues, I crossed the
 river when the monk took a glitter, and the
 horn blue without it touching my lip. 
I bend down and the crowd began to cry, 
play that horn until the air is no more, 
the location that I stood before the crowd, 
and the blue lights were flickering as I cry 
out loud, Louie play that shit, play that shit, 
as he swayed to the left
I swayed to the right…
The songs of the weary blues, begin
To sing its own words, down at the lounge
The blue tent house, and the old lantern
And the soufflé of the night,  
Gold chains, pen strip garments that lingered
To the floor, high top pants, and glitter tops,
As the people dance the camel walk, down 
at the cotton club, where down in the mist of Harlem light.
My man don’t love me no more, Sarah von
 with the flower in her hair, decked out with
 her divas dress,
Smoked in a furnace, as the jazz band play,
 do that shit , do that shit, cried out all night.
I blew my horn and tap my feet, the sound of jazz
Need not my lips, as the night went on, 
the spirit of jazz did its own thing.

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