Poor sad sod sat in the corner,

singing blues songs, unheard by

the munching, chattering hopefuls

- with companions of opportunity -

everybody planning to get laid.

‘I get those blues when it rains,’

‘on the outskirts of every town,’

‘when my woman leaves me blue -

I’ll reach for a rich white line

three easy chords, and a trigger.’

A poor sad sod sat in the corner,

singing blues songs, heard only

by a few late, sated sycophants

singing along to littered tables,

angling for a discount on a CD.

Cheap wine, bottle now empty -

- sing 'San Francisco Bay blues'.

 Another free coffee, cold and bitter -

- sing 'me I aint got nothing to lose'.

Time to go, sing, 'goodnight blues'.

Poor sad sod, sat in the corner,

lost in thought at evening's end,

putting  away lasagne and chips,

a scant reward for teasing tinnitus,

and a plastic, half-full, cup of tips.

End Note:    This is dedicated to all all who have played as others dine because ‘what the hell’ a gig is a gig and even if it pays a pittance it comes with a meal. Just think of it as practice in a noisy room.

At the blue lizard café © Dermott Ryder