She Don’t Swing Like You Do a Jazz man's Confession (B-Side)

And when the rhythm changed, and the beat got cold,
You were still crooning, while her instincts rolled.
It ain’t betrayal — it’s nature’s sly hand,
You gave her your heart, she just needed a man.

And the harder you begged, the smaller you got,
‘Til dignity packed up, and respect said, “Why not?”
You thought love meant giving without end,
But baby, jazz needs rhythm — not just a bend.

Schopenhauer — now that cat could see —
Said, “Son, don’t worship where biology be.”
When you crown her queen of your self-worth land,
Don’t be surprised when it slips like sand.

But here’s the punchline, the smoky room truth:
You let it happen, oh starry-eyed youth.
Not your fault — but now you know the game,
So don’t go beggin’, don’t shoulder the blame.

You ain’t here to be chosen — you’re here to choose.
Drop the sad sax — lace up those blues.
Stand tall, swing true, and guard your flame,
‘Cause love’s not a savior — it’s just part of the game.

And now, baby, you’re free —
A man with jazz in his chest and clarity in key.