Oh, Jazz, I won’t submit to your past form:
You swing the eighths in many bluesy tunes,
The awkward rhythm pains me to perform.
An art that has seen quite a many moon,
Your creation brings pain to those who play.
Confusing notes, those strange arpeggios;
Those pesky accidentals, must they stay?
“Here, faster,” no, please more adiago!
But hearing that tune in your finish there. . .
Expressive, you can show the blind rainbows.
The rolling rhythm, smooth like ladies’ hair;
The language barriers you cannot know.
As free as all that jazz can ever be,
As free as music can make you or me.