“Naw, I don’t get into jazz,” she said, finger popping, club hopping all the while. “I’m sure it’s fine but not my style. ‘Sides, can’t you see I’m dancing now? An’ what’s a coal train anyhow?” Club hopping, finger popping, all the while.
Danced so fine, that gal of mine.
Fake hair fling, brown flesh crying to be freed from jeans that lacked imagination. She did a spin, shrugged off men who took her smile for invitation. “Damn, it gets so I can’t smile,” she said, swearing, “Jazz just ain’t my style,” finger popping, club hopping all the while. “No, that one’s cool (too innovative) and this one’s cute (but too creative). See, I like a simple tune, falsetto singer’s mellow croon sends shivers up and down my spine … fool get your hand off my behind! And I told you no! Jazz ain’t my style,” club hopping, finger popping, all the while.
Maybe my rap was weak.
Three clubs, four drinks, and hours later, I grew too tipsy to debate her; couldn’t seem to make her see what Dizz and Coltrane mean to me, but still she rattled on. Then, “You shoulda told me you can dance.” Then, “Maybe I’ll give jazz a chance, that’s if it’s flowing right,” she smiled at me to my delight. Club hopping, finger popping, through the night.