A Cello Dreams of Playing the Blues

Strings stretched and frayed;

Notes no longer crisp and clear;

No longer fit for the concert hall.

No more mournful Elgar concertos.

Too old and beaten up, that time has gone.

Hangin’ in a deserted workshop,

Cello dreams of soloin’ the soul,

Clingin’ to a cloud, playing 12-bar blues

At smoky nightclubs

Or on the banks of Old Muddy.

Dreamin’ misty melancholy,

Growlin’ flattened notes and walkin’ bass.

Dark, foggy nights on the levee,

Singin’ sweet soul with Lucifer’s own bow,

Stooping syncopated chords, riffin’ the baseline.

Just a beaten-up ole gutbucket under the stars.