Abstract
1 7 R D E E P S O N G C O R N E L I U S E A D Y These mother-fuckers, These mother-fuckers Won’t let me sing. Billie Holiday Will not be allowed To raise her voice At Lester Young’s funeral. She won’t be allowed. She is a scarlet woman. The mourners, the mourners Are scandalized. He was sweet, And now he’s gone. He was hers, And his wife won’t have it. These mother-fuckers. These mother-fuckers. That’s love. That the understanding Of how long he’s been gone, How long he’ll be gone. It’s deep, down in her cells. It’s awful, just terrible. Right in a church She’s showing it. Right in a church. What you going do about it, Harlem? That voice 1 8 Y That broken-bottle neck Voice She wants his sax Around her voice cords, She wants his pork-pie Pulled rough against Her skin, her body Is a horn. Let me sing About love, she thunders, Let me sing about love You mother-fuckers. ...
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