The Sarasota Blues
I light up a cigarette, wondering if i've passed my prime
As I take a drag I think, 'Right place, wrong time?'
Life's parking meter seems to have, eaten my dime
I sip the red wine to temporarily quench my thirst
I walk down to Joe's and wince as I take the stage
The barkeeper slides me a drink and says 'You've just been paid'
The audience listens to me like i'm a bird in thier cage
I realize its the right time, wrong place, and i've been cursed
The smoke rings of hypocrisy blur the edges of reality
They hear the music, but listen not to the words
They smile brightly and wide eyed, while breathing in sadly
As they stroll through life living thier days rehearsed
The musician's on the corner
He is singing his blues
The artist's in the alley
He's begging for food
The poet's out on Main Street
With the Sarasota blues
I finish the show, and they all shake my hand
They recite thier lines, after practice, 'The show was grand!'
Business cards flow, call me tomorrow, they command
But the next day, your name seems to elude them
They head on home to thier beach front lofts across the bridge
Humming my melodies, the music of my soul, the point they missed
As I exhale into to an empty smoked filled fridge
That beer has to have filled me up for the evening
This town prides itself an 'Art Community', but it don't seem to fit
Artists die in the alleyways, but no one seems to give a shit
While the cops use deadly force, but it doesn't seem legit
The hypocrisy in the air here is poison
The musician's on the corner
He's crying his blues
The artist died in the alley
He was looking for food
The poet's leaving Main Street
With the Sarasota Blues
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