Left-hand weakness

I have a left hand weakness
My bass sucks
Can’t keep the rhythm
My right hand, though
Is a funky bird
Jumping easily between
5th, 7th and 9th
So I tell Max
Play the bass line
And there we roll:

My right watermelons
Over the keys
Extensively while I
Check out the chicks
They always fall for the
Solo-man, though
Max’ fingers beats out
The syncopated rhythm
On the lower keys
Octave-wise

I could have one
If I hadn’t too many.

So when we meet
In the lounge next morning
I have some taste of
Old Scotch ‘round my tongue
While Max chews on
Some blond pussy-hair.

Bar flying high

I get world’s wisdom through my nose
and I’m too cool to snap my fingers.
I wear gloves, actually, because
my velvet-skinned hands are holy.
Here and there I’m forced to kiss
wet lips; the ladies approve.
They buy me drinks and show the goods.

Eventually, between two fixes, I might sit down
and play some sexy piano Jazz.

The truth, of course, is, that I’m nowhere near desire
when I come with fingers spread out on the keys.
I still need the warmth of your breasts and a downer
to make it into the night.
And you want me to keep the gloves on.