Lady dear, if Fairies may 
For a moment lay aside 
Cunning tricks and elfish play, 
’Tis at happy Christmas-tide.

We have heard the children say— 
Gentle children, whom we love— 
Long ago, on Christmas Day, 
Came a message from above.

Still, as Christmas-tide comes round, 
They remember it again— 
Echo still the joyful sound 
“Peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Yet the hearts must childlike be 
Where such heavenly guests abide: 
Unto children, in their glee, 
All the year is Christmas-tide!

Thus, forgetting tricks and play 
For a moment, Lady dear, 
We would wish you, if we may, 
Merry Christmas, glad New Year!

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
     I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
     He did a lazy sway . . .
     He did a lazy sway . . .
To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
     O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
     Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man’s soul.
     O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan—
     "Ain’t got nobody in all this world,
       Ain’t got nobody but ma self.
       I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’
       And put ma troubles on the shelf."

Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more—
     "I got the Weary Blues
       And I can’t be satisfied.
       Got the Weary Blues
       And can’t be satisfied—
       I ain’t happy no mo’
       And I wish that I had died."
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.

I like how Stevie Nicks speaks like a Martian sometimes.  

“I came here for a reason,” she said in a 1983 interview. 
As if simply relaying the directive from her mothership.  

“I didn’t come here to be a mother …” Bet that sounded  
pretty alien then. Coming from a young pretty woman.  

Like a Trojan horse. Feminism disguised in a frilly dress.   

It makes me think about my birth mother. Like Stevie, 
she didn’t come here to be a mother. Unlike my mother,  
who couldn’t get pregnant but wouldn’t let that stop her 
from becoming what she came here to be. My mother,  

as passionate about adoption as she was about choice. 

I like how that confuses some—those who like to point 
out that abortion might’ve prevented her from adopting. 
I suppose those dimwits came here to be … well, dimwits.  

Still, bet they can’t help but hum along when they hear 
Stevie Nicks songs. Failing to realize that all those songs  
are her children. That she gave birth to them for us.   

“Because,” she said. “I want to enhance this planet.”