There's fairness in changing blood for septet's

    guardian rhythm， the horn blossoming

    into cadenza. No good pimp's scowl， his

    baby's voice ruined sweet for the duration.

    Yes， these predictable fifths. O， the blues

    is all about slinging those low tales out

    the back door （sing： child pried open on that

    stained floor）。 O， Billie hollers way down dirt

    roads （sing： woman on the verge of needled

    logic）。 She's aware——yeah， I'm going to

    kiss some man's sugared fist tonight. O， this

    tableau's muse， a Lady cautioning me：

    Just tough this thing out， girl. Sweat through the jones.

    Don't ask for nothing.  Spit your last damned note