Underground lair,
Noisy, acrid, smoke laden air,
Drunken barflies hovering,
Waitresses bothering,
Then she walks on,
Positions a stool to sit upon,
Puts a half burned cigarette, up the neck end through the strings,
While some much worse for wear, stare from the wings,
Then, a blanket of silence over the whole place she lays,
As the first chord she plays.
Legs crossed...My feet on the table, hat tilted over my eyes just so,
Telling folk I don't want company....They know,
Sipping the perfect iced gin,
It's always like this, when Cassy plays the mandolin.