Why should I rewrite the lonely-hearted blues?
Some weaver-widow-woman used up all the indigo dye,
and there’s 12 bars downtown in 12 chromatic hues.
Some blind painter found me, and he showed me why
‘A Poet Feels Alone’ ‘s a poor excuse for news.
He used to lay in bed and watch his portraits dry.
He told me that he used to have a muse—
a Navy boy who wouldn’t let the painter die,
as if one life was all that he could bear to lose.
So who am I to sing the lonely-hearted blues?
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