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He Was Like Singing

He was like singing.
Why, it even ended with a sore throat and stinging eyes
And it was being safe and alive and grown-up and complete
Well, who wants to live in an old record anyway?
Even if it was a classic.

Who misses arbitrary laughter and counting firsts?
Looking up through eyelashes and feeling like a poet?
I got my wish.
That of a thousand primed girls, waiting for a nice boy to cry over,
And vent their lyrics about into a hairbrush.

The next song will be brighter, and stronger, with a saxophone chorus.

And of course some sad songs will be his!

Would it be too cliché if I said
That the end of a great day of ballad is the start of new night of jazz?



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