Deep down, from the river, from the black earth
From Mississippi mud to Chi town streets
Slow, and rhythmic, ****** beats.
A man stands,  late to his own show,
and declares to the audience below
that he is a Man. Spelled M, A, N.
We believe. His mastery,  presence,
husky voice. The essence
of Man. And what the men don’t know–
the little girl understands. It’s my first show
without my parents. My brother's there.
A man sitting near us shoots up–I stare,
as smoke of cigarettes and **** fills the air.
A packed crowd, eager to see
one of the last of the greats, history.
But no nostalgic, fleecing tour is this .
One of Muddy’s last is still at the top of my list.

When i am asked who was my first love
I do not name that girl  in 2020
I speak the name of a woman who is just so heavenly.
Five albums have become my whole life scriptures
Her voice fills my ears so full that I feel exactly what she did when she put pen to paper.
A striking look to match her voice, her flowing red hair and vintage gowns.
She has become my escape , my anchor, my companion, when I need help I know with her music I know I'm much safer.
Words sung in celebration of femininity and fairytale, folklore and fantasy.
Fans line the barrier in flower crowns and glitter on their faces ready to give themselves, as human sacrifices to that lady singing and dancing on stage.
Every song feels like a comfort blanket but alse a wave of intense emotion.
She has given me not just music but a wider connection to other people who live for the euphoria.
I know I wouldn't be me without her music, and what it has done for me.
You are truly magical, Florence and the machine ✨️.