Les Paul

Les Paul                                                                                                                                                                              Cleveland Noel


in his arms, he cradles
Black Beauty, she sings
lofty phrases, poetry

his deft left hand strokes
her ebony neck, she breathes
polyphonic harmonies

and as her soulful aria soars
and fills the air with muted tones,
he lives forgotten memories…

and the crowd sways to the legend’s song,
the ragtime rhythm catching on
as feet tap, fingers snap
it’s a hit, and
everyone mouths the simple words
that tell the tale of every heart...

and as he plays the final note,
the call goes out again for more;
and so he smiles that knowing smile,
and strums another op’ning chord --

neon lights slowly dim
the spotlight’s his, and
every eye is set on him

he leans into the microphone,
names the tune -- this stage
is fully his, and his alone

and as the lively chorus breaks
and pours into the quiet streets,
the dormant city night awakes…

and once again it’s ‘53, and
he’s sitting on top of the world,
in his proper element
as four, five, maybe six generations
mix and mingle ‘round the stage --
‘cause he’s a legend, and they know
that in their fondest memories
this night will never die.