In a hot jazz club where candle lights glowed,
Where cool cats gathered and the highballs flowed,
There sat a songbird, so breezy and bright,
Spinning soft gold in the hush of the night.
Soft voice, like champagne—pure bubbly yet sly,
A wink in her tone, a tilt to her eye.
She sang with a smirk, a swing with a tease,
Like featherlight breezes through late-night trees.
Most fans paid respect, like those in New York,
No talking ‘bout drinks, or lifting a fork.
When London leaned in, she’d then start to sing.
This girl from New York just knew how to swing.
Wherever she went, the world tapped its feet,
Australians tapped a kangaroo beat.
Her style pure retro, carved her own chic way,
With tunes like fine wine in a cabaret.
With a schoolgirl's voice, a dash of the sage,
A whisper of wit on a well-worn stage.
Girlish voice so sweet, so smart and so spry —
Like a moonbeam laugh in a midnight sky.
Her voice, a ribbon that dances on air,
With bebop finesse and cabaret flair.
She’s forever hip, passions unrestrained
From low whispered jives — her groove holds unchained.
"I'm hip," she declares with a knowing grin,
While the bass walks cool and the drums kick in.
"I'm hip, and a gas, but not filled with air —
I'm straight but not square, with long, smooth, blonde hair."
She tickles the keys with a magic touch,
Effortless, playful, but never too much.
Yes, she works for cash – plays jazz in a flash.
She's hip, and a gas, but not middle class.
She's the pulse of dreams, a rebel who's fair.
She's alive, aware, in step, but not square.
She's the Queen of Cool, live sounds, not weary.
Let's raise a glass to Miss Blossom Dearie.
