The City and the Blues Man

His city does away with his craft, for the hopes of preserving its citizens
His face ravaged by time; age; wind
And most efficiently, concrete
He turns his lust to life by the note of a harmonica and bang of the tambourine
His pursuit is all too human; a lust which in its passion has cost him the world a net a life
He is the last of the starving artists
He crafts his lust on the winnowing wind, and ages for every note
Denied by the Blues club just down the road
He moves his craft afar
But the blues club grows,
It grows as a shadow wandering over hills and into every corner of his heart and city
Searching him out, and strangling his lust
And let no life to follow quick
As has been the way of attractive society, he has been chased out
His lust will be permitted; the life it creates will not
His only means of living are now wrestled from his grasp; he can be no more than criminal
The starving artist will starve and grow all the more the artist for his troubles
But he would just as soon be fed and do without starvation
But this is fantasy, and he must busy his mouth in other ways
And the walls of the blues club grow even larger now, pulsating with living blood and manifestly stifling policy
The starving artist is pinned down and held to the concrete, the blues club inescapable and casting dark
His face ageing before our eyes; his heart beating still
The city which had created him now destroys him
His face ageing infront of us
He is taken from his place of birth for the first time since he first fed the wind
He is given bread to sign his new contract of complicity
To swallow the bread means the end to lust and life, but will prevent his death
The shadow now dark and thick with smoke
The lines of his ageing melt away into the bleak like all the rest
The blues club has him now; and he has been destroyed
The lust will never die, but his life has ended forever
He may starve, but he will no longer be the starving artist
And this all for want of bread and lust that consumes us all