As I throw the shaw over my left shoulder,

The water sound in my heart keeps its pace.

A pressed idea comes near to my face,

And it only picks up a rhythm,

So daring to chase.

Is this that what Billie Holiday was singing about,

When she sat and rocked,

Did a painter ever cross her mind,

While she dreamt of a poc-ket full of silent knocks,

In motion she caught.

Because a loner walks too far,

Over the bridge and traveling under a heart-felt lock.

And boy, she wasn't kiddin',

Her blues respected,

Like instruments are to a building's block.

Yes, my neighborhood,

That fever shock.

Who knows,

Picasso might of just been poor,

And didn't have legos to paint a cultural fault.

Well, whether its Billie or Mr. Picasso,

I sure, too, find solitude in drifting off.