Can You Write The Blues?

    Can you?  For those of us who never learned to strum the strings, we can still hum the tune.  Our collars may be different colors but we drink the same gin.  Everyone looks for words when there's nothing to say.  Sighs and shaking heads accompany the songs.  The musician bellows an anthem for the crowds to hide behind.  He tells us of woes we've all felt.  Woman leaves, tap runs dry, the kids don't remember your name.  We clap between the songs but we mean them half-heartedly.  No one feels much like joy.  Not here.  And when the musician leaves, will we not be able to make our own words and sing them out of tune when no one's watching?  To Hell with the godly string-pluckers.  They've ascended nowhere.  They play to drink just as we steal to eat.  When they've lowered themselves among the squabble from off their throne, they'll have the same amount of Blues as anybody.  Everyone's got 'em.  Kids got 'em.  Some people sing 'em, some people draw 'em, and some people write 'em down.  But everybody's got the Blues.