He sang 100 sad songs, plied oh so wonderfully with his trusted trumpeter by his side
Another resolute man, adamant to the last on following his leader, forever astute
Alongside that there was, of course, the brass quitarist – supremely sparse in nature, and neither was this band a stranger when it came to lending a little time to a pianist, three young fellas with the Midas touch when taking into account the matter of playing effortlessly immaculate Blues
Their heady crowds didn’t really seem to care what songs they might choose to use next
Loose and pitted with perfect egos, all too prepared to reap what they sow, catch that perfect ebb and flow, go with it, sit on it ’til their heroes were left mesmerised
Whenever the handsome man sang it was always in relative disguise and with one eye on the prize, with these golden-oldiies came world-wide notoriety
Finally took their foot from the pedal in the late-forties, a situation incorrectly defused owing to a fair deal of alcohol abuse