Saved From The Skip

By our Staff Reporter, Will Shakespeare.

(A hospital room in Atlanta, Georgia) Alas! The soul of Soule away hath been stol’n this Monday last, when JAMES BROWNE, Revel of Rhythm and Bard of the Blues, did pass from this great stage of fools, aged three score and thirteen.
“Melancholy indeed am I to stand before thee alone. A team were we,” quoth Brown’s personal attendant Charles Bobbit at the press parley Tuesday last, where his plenteous woes did pour forth in drops of sorrow.
Attend did Bobbit beside the death-marked man where he lay, and chanced to hear his passing words: “This night do I depart.”
Thus, with three long quiet breathes, he dyed.
Ripp’d from his motheres womb in Barnwell, (a smalle hamlet in the Colonies), year of OUR LORD, 1933, break through did Browne the mists of his lowly originnes as sonne of a Moorish cotton-reapere, to win great honour ‘pon the battle fieldes of pop. Rude was he of lyrics, and unpolished in his funkie beates. But t’was his portance ‘pon the stage that bought golden opinions o’ critics and the time, when, his roisting rhythmes beating loude within his yers, by sound and fury Browne rapt would be, and imitate the actions of an Anthropophaginian.
Long shall be remembranc’d the parted Godfathere of Soule, for the lascivious pleasing of his multitudinous smash-hittes, ‘mongst which be found:
Prithee, Prithee, Prithee
Proclaim it Aloud: Moorish Am I, And Also Proude
I Have Thee (Gode Feel I), and
Arise! (Desire Do I To Be Akin to) A Sexe Machine.

Farewell, sweet Sovereign of Soule.