Gwen hoops

This is the last jazz club in Brooklyn. Some say it's a rogue haunt. All seated at the table preparing who knows what but surely something that the law cannot tolerate. And then you take your place in front of the piano. You sing and then all the conversations are silent. Everyone is watching. It's funny a thug with the eyes of love, you know Gwen. Leaning on the bar, I look at you. You don't wear any jewelry except those earrings and there's nothing that shines brighter than you.