There he goes a-steppin’ in his high-soled shoes,
loves to disco-dance, but he lives to blow the Blues.
He’s jes free-wheelin’, no monkey on his back,
Slippin’ on his shades, keep the Ladies on his track.
He got some feather boas wrappin’ round his neck,
Stacksa LP records in the groove on deck.
He blows smoke-circles from Gitanes, up high
Drinkin’ Veuve Cliquot, says, it bubbles with a sigh.
One sad day, he’ll be wakin’ up to find
This ol’ world’s gone crazy– it’ll blow his mind!
Then he’ll pack away his duds, find a stool up at the bar
Stub his ciggy in the tray … sink another jar.
In his low-slung Lincoln with the hula on the dash,
He’ll ease on down to N’Orleans, and blow out all his cash.
There he’ll end his days by a Bourbon Street lamp-post,
Jammin’ to the echoes of an old jazz-ghost.
Please see the Podcaster in my sidebar to hear a reading of this poem. Technical difficulties have been resolved. Thank you!