Autumn in New York,
And the broads, the bars,
The booze and Billie
Singing with the boys

In the band, and Pres
On his sax, a limp
Cigarette hanging
From his lips, his eyes

Half-closed, his mind on
Other matters, and
He remembering
All this way back in

37 or
38 he just
Couldn’t be sure of
The date, just the way

Billie sang, her voice
Taking him apart,
Breaking into his
Sour New York heart.