His little black book
A mystery to most
One could take a look
But never figure out the host

To understand his madness 
His scribblings and such
You had to explore the brightness
His mind often touched

The entries were enigmas
A code so well kept
Like entry number 420 said,
“@6pm Gibson Les Paul guitar”

To the naked eye
It didn’t mean much
He was clever but shy
Which was always my hunch

Always willing to give a lesson
But that was certainly not the case
He definitely did have a session
And it was more than playing the bass

A mystery to her name
A woman he liked to strum
It was a wicked little game
That always made him come

You may wonder how I broke his code
How I knew his tawdry tricks
See I was always in the shadows
His little sidekick, if you wish

I patiently waited
For his private sessions to end
Hovering like a little bee
So I knew when to begin

When he entered the room
And sat in his chair
A dirty martini 
I placed carefully in his hand