Mr. Baldwin once told me a story.
We followed a young man. He was dying.
I wept. But Mr. Baldwin smiled at me –
The man was loving, living, and playing.
I grew anxious. To be a musician…
To not simply see fear, but to touch it;
To submit to blood and sun of passion;
To taunt and tempt rage; to feel the spirit!
At the time, I thought music was music.
But I know why he kissed the world with notes.
Universalism unnerves the sick.
I want to climb, so I break through the moats.
His music and your soul are my words. Who’s?
My name is Sonny, and I have the blues.