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.