7 December 2012
She sits, alone at the bar A dry martini in a crystal-cut glass Balanced between her slender fingers Which, in the hazy smoke of her cigarette Drip with diamonds that wink and glitter In the low light of this hazy room. Her mahogany hair falls in waves about her soft shoulders; Tumbling curls which cover An elegant neck, high cheekbones Piercing, cat-like eyes with smoky rims, Plunging blue irises, glittering, Lustrous scarlet lips. She seems so... Anonymous As if even if you were in love with her, You would never truly know her. The sort who doesn't trust, Doesn't ever let go of everything In case you fuck off and leave her standing.
Later that night, When the stage lights fade up, And there she is; graceful arm draped around the neck of a suited pianist, Who sits, poised, waiting to play
Looking up through a fan of dark lashes, She pulls the microphone close to her lips, As if to kiss it, And breathes in
It is at this point, She is understood. When the first note echoes around the walls of the bar And glasses no longer clink, and The murmur of conversation has dulled to silence, And the people who were 'just leaving' Pause at the door, coats in hand, To hear her sing. Lady, She sings it so well She gets it She's getting it She's going with it all the way, As notes feed into one another Like a string of pearls, No, not pearls, diamonds. She doesn't need to make sense, She lives like the flow of jazz; Just... Going with it, you know? Just singing what sounds right and saying what's right to say. I don't care who she is; She's a jazz singer, And all she ever needs to do is sing this jazz
And, all at once, the song ends, And she's gone But... You still get her
The Jazz Singer • Opuss № I