Old Beale Street Jazz boy
plays the guitar, sings the song
Crops of cotton, seeds of soy
a decoy to let them hear
Plucking those strings of joy
waves of rage in these same tears
Written with charcoal—unheard notes —
He sings color free of fear
A soul forgetting those wild oats.
With his plectrum, a sharp whiplash,
Flesh and sweat—the Deep South floats —
time has come...has come in a flash
Let his song sings through our throats
Yet let the Jazz of hope splash.