You was the first jazz boy I came across. The first boy who made that piece of wood and strings sing, the first time I understood what all the girls raved about. I was a jazz girl. Drunk on the blues, dancing with the devil, drinking tequila and lime kind of girl. You took me to a club, danced the night away with me, ignoring the rule to leave room for jesus because oh boy, the devil had his claws wrapped around both of our throats and the only way to breathe was to suck the oxygen from each others mouths. You tasted like cigarettes. It brought back memories of how my father smelt when he smoked like a chimney and maybe that’s why I liked it. It felt like home. You treated me like a jazz girl. Gave me your leather jacket when I was cold, let me jel your hair with your favourite comb and rolled me cigs whilst I applied my red lipstick. But the record broke, the blues stopped and my lipstick began to fade the moment you told me you loved me. I was no longer a jazz girl.
~Original poem by Demi Whitnell