Lean
Smoky ol’ bar,
the sinful sounds of jazz, waiters
movin’ thru jigsaw bodies, balancing
trays of booze; sawdust on the floor,
scrape of shoes, swirl o’ skirt,
flecks of sweat.
Oh, you can just feel the body heat,
a room full o’ sinners on a Saturday night
an’ you can just feel the sizzle,
hell, it’s tasty as a skillet full o’ bacon;
got an empty pint, got a torn stocking,
a little rough stuff under the light
of the silvery moon; but for now,
see that looker over there,
see the way she just---- leans?
All some dames gotta do, is just lean.
Every man in this room’s aware,
men with rot in their minds,
cash in their pockets.
all she gotta do is jus’ lean.
Look at the way she raises that cigarette,
rotates it slowly toward those blood-red lips,
they burned Joan of Arc for less.
An’ get a load a’ those god damned smoke rings---
perfect little hoops
any o’ these jaspers would hap’ly jump thru.
ain’t a man in this world,
ain’t got a yen fer a bad girl,
she’s the kind fat Sheriff Buford says is,
pretty enough to get into trouble,
pretty enough to get out of trouble---
And her eyes are on the band,
always on the band,
licks her lips and sways them hips,
an’ the band gets into her blood,
eyes on the sax man,
“he’s beautiful.”
A waiter brings her another drink,
motions with a thumb toward some jasper
at the bar who makes with the eyes.
She salutes, downs the shot o’ firewater,
an’ then chump is forgotten. Now, forgetcher
pity, most are just cowards,
take a look at the soles o’ his shoes,
ain’t worn down, they ain’t rarely
stood up and strode the full length of a room---
rot in his mind, sure---
cash in his pockets, debatable---
but no marrow in his bones.
Oh, there’s a hate in places like this,
doll feels it blowin’ in on the back of the north wind
each time she raises that cigarette to her mouth.
Yeah, someday she’ll end up, crushed windpipe,
dead in an alley or tossed
on the side o’ the road,
but for now she leans
into the lurid shadows
and savors the burn of whiskey
in the back o’ her throat.
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