If you do me unright ,
I will not hate you quite,
For you got your rules
I gotten blues …
I will make a song about you
And sing it to morning dew
And To whoever listens ..
that evening …
Swing, I will all on my own
By the corrals of dry foam
And startle all the folk
with wet grasslands …
Over the mountains cream unfolds,
Where clouds dance in the cold
Serving only one purpose ,
For my Rains.
You still look down on me,
I still sing up on to
rim,
For you got your rules
I gotten blues ,
My people keep me aside ,
On the shoulder of the tide ,
Or I forget ocean of mind,
Forever…
So whats music to me?
Partly pain, partly freedom
Partly mundane, partly God-loom
Partly Love, never hate,
Partly soul, My friend,
often people, seldom me.
It used to be a cheap hobby,
Or a cheaper way to pose
Now its solvent of my soul.
I am basically a slave you see,
on contract with white bumblebee
And I am more black than white,
I guess you can see that clear,
If you have that sight.
Yes ,I am slave and thats right,
I sing the songs of slaves,
My Blues ,My Blues at Night.
No training Have I,
No theory I know ,
No grammar I show,
No tricks I sow.
I have no use of rage,
And I may never have stage.
Yet I sing my song.
With Or without you,
Be it right or wrong.
Who cares?
I will drop into the grave
With same speed as rest of slaves.
