He saved his broken bongs and bird feathers

and always knew his cardinal directions. 

He found voodoo in the ninth ward and crossed the

Mississippi River.

He was a motherless son, his father sold himself to the devil

for a fiddle and a bottle of gin.


When he walked down to Georgia to get me

I was concrete on his feet and he drowned way down in Dalton

and he wound up in the street. 


(I used this picture in an earlier post, but I like it and it goes well with this, so here it is again.)