IT WAS ABOUT TIME

IT WAS ABOUT TIME

IT WAS ABOUT TIME

The blues, the blues is yours in mine
Shot at in your BM I couldn’t afford
Fought those publishers and censors who’ve preceded you
“I will say what needs to be said,” and he did, direct
Fingerwagging in return their landwide curse
Brought your cherry off-time to my spare room
So cash I smuggled in to fix your bite
Italy we toured together reading freely
Though they would applaud without a real understanding
Black arts that yearned, never paid out
Unaccounted for, but you stayed you stayed
Filled in for an entire artless vile regime
Typing two fingers on manual: N O
Jigging out the poetry of SO WE TO
Oh, the blues, the blues is you in me
Never spelled out his memoirs, accepted
All their subvention instead, died holding on
Nor any of this rap clap trap and vogueish roll
Wrote real English verse, a hard harder school
The best of them, God rest your living soul
Oh, the black blues, the real black blues . . .