Fire Jazz

The jazz singer's silken voice is to her fiery notes, what a cloak is to an alter ego.

The fire brigade is on its way.
The cabaret singer, in dismay.
She didn't start the fire,
said no liar,
seated in the top tier.

Waiting now, for the fire brigade,
outside the Royal Arcade,
the royal breed of tinsel town,
assembled in chaos, betray no frown.
Their showman looks down.

Before the fire, the showman stood tall.
Singing misty tunes of jazz, the doll,
dressed in a heavy white, jewel-laden attire,
ruled many a heart's desire
with a voice as silk as fire.

But then, her jazz was breached.
"Is that fire?", somebody shrieked,
as smoke emanated from the top tier
and people ran, for their lives, dear.
There are silken cloaks dolls don't wear.

The fire brigade will soon be here
and put away the doll's leer.
She didn't start the fire,
said no liar,
seated in the top tier.