Fall moon poured through the slits of the old slated shutters
in the dirty New Orleans bar where you were playing.
It lay across your chest in that low cut summer dress
all white dots in a field of red.
Your blond hair pulled up tight in spit curls
and you sang a slow sad song of winters love.
I watched while you sipped from a rocks glass
of straight Johnny Walker Blue and wondered
how a girl like you ever learned the seasons
and all their pain.

With a slight tin voice sounding of old classic radio
you told of a love grown cold.
The trumpet played a soft tremulous tone and
I thought I caught a tear in your eye,
which you brushed away with your glass.
What's a little salt water in your whiskey
when you're feeling alone?

The song you sang came to a long break
with the stand up bass and guitar keeping time
as you walked around the room, glass jar in hand,
collecting scant dollar bills from the smoke filled room.
I wanted to buy you a drink,
but wondered what a girl like you
could ever do with a man like me.

The tune came to a close with your head bowed low
thanking a crowd who would never know
it was your blue heart they were drinking to.
Just another lonely night in the Big Easy
with the band playing low.