| Call me the picker of kick-ass chansons
the musical one and bid him whip
in indigo riffs the smokin'
blues of his guitar
Let the strings twang and dawdle
in such funk as the spirit
is used to wear in the fretting tunes
of leafless trees
conducting December's air
The flesh fades
the first thrill is gone
yet the body stays
for the soul to pick upon
and they jam a peacock
fan of hot licks cleaned
with the whole-split genius
of men and angels strumming
Light's heart from out
a prism of peculiar keys
Let us be acoustic of dream
Let heaven be and hell only seem
Let B.B. King's wailing chords be keen
the only emperors alive are you and me
psalmed in sin and magic from the first breath
we sing stung by the honeyed arrow of the blues
confessing blind faith in the Midnight Hour
our words in search of the tune
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