Couldn’t write a straight tune if he wanted to.
Couldn’t read music or keep time.
Couldn’t do anything the way others did it.
Swung at anyone who pissed him off, or pulled a knife, even.
Once threw a piano down the stairs in a rage.
Chased women all the time, white women, especially.
Talked non-stop, always ranting about some kind of mistreatment.
Cheated anyone to get his own way.
Bragged incessantly about himself.
Loved fine wines and exotic cuisines.
Lived rich and died broke.
Had a grin as wide as America.
A voice, a charm, a wit, a charisma, a splendour
That he carried around in his bass.
All that he saw and felt and learned
Went into that instrument,
Nothing was separate, nothing was wasted.
All he had was death and women.
And that sound.
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