The year 1975, a cold January night of a pretentious age.
Midnight approaching as the music plays in the background,
Soft yet endearing, perfect for a man with a broken smile.
He sits there in his chair, drinking whisky from the bottle,
With a mind much too stagnant, entrapped, too afraid to wander off.
His thoughts, having already killed his heart whole,
As he awaits confirmation to move on to ****** his soul.
A classic jazz piece of the decade, the woman's voice crisp,
Clear enough to enslave him with the truth.
And truth kills, sharp as a knife waiting to stab,
But more of a hostage at gunpoint, begging to be shot.
The chills begin, one last gulp before he climbs up
And puts the noose around his neck.
His heart stops the exact moment, the record ceases to sing,
As if holding its breath, never to whisper its heart endearing chime.
That cold January night of the year 1975,
There was a broken record cursed to never play again,
Along with the body of a man with a broken smile.