Deep Song

These mother-fuckers,
These mother-fuckers
Won’t let me sing.
Billie Holiday
Will not be allowed
To raise her voice
At Lester Young’s funeral.
She won’t be allowed.
She is a scarlet woman.
The mourners, the mourners
Are scandalized.
He was sweet,
And now he’s gone.
He was hers,
And his wife won’t have it.
These mother-fuckers.
These mother-fuckers.
That’s love.
That the understanding
Of how long he’s been gone,
How long he’ll be gone.
It’s deep, down in her cells.
It’s awful, just terrible.
Right in a church
She’s showing it.
Right in a church.
What you going do about it,
Harlem?
That voice
That broken-bottle neck
Voice
She wants his sax
Around her voice cords,
She wants his pork-pie
Pulled rough against
Her skin, her body
Is a horn. Let me sing
About love, she thunders,
Let me sing about love
You mother-fuckers.