A Master In Rags…

This is a re-worked piece to Honor all of our Masters in Rags…

Gnarled bent aching fingers

Deftly polishes brass

Of an old well-used trumpet

Held like thin fragile glass

He finds a street corner

Plastic bowl to hold tips

He then picks up his treasure…

Closes eyes…

Purses lips…


With talent God-given

His Blue Music flows

Over those all around him

Soon a small crowd will grow

He never looks up

Rich notes never lag

All are witnessing Genius…

He’s a Master in Rags…


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