A Master In Rags…

Gnarled bent aching fingers

Deftly polish brass

Of well used treasured trumpet

He cradles like fragile glass

…Closes eyes…

…Purses lips…

And…He…Blows…

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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