Scott Joplin played piano, he had all the notes in the bag. Wish I could compose a similar tune, my own original rag.
A tune a tonic to play, a remedy to mend a mood, a jangly round to summon happy times, a refreshment interlude.
A vacancy in the air, a hollow ache in the heart, wait to feel the pulse of my melody, heal by the strum of my art.
I sit and play my guitar, find the right rhythm, random chord, the shallow place in this rapid river, stable stones to help me ford.
Must not yield to winter cold, must continue to use my gift. Subtle syncopations are not my skill, I have my simple load to lift.
I plunge my mind in the pool, and gather the notes from the bag. Time to turn the tap on my wayward tune, my own original rag.