Blues 

They say the talkin' blues

was made to be played

by a black man, smoke-smellin'

an' whiskey stained eyes.

His Earth is real, his blues

comes up from the air o' despair.

His castle is a poolroom and

his empire is a guitar.

They say the talkin blues'

is no domain for a white kid,

college prepped and daddys' car

coke burnt nose eyes wide

with speed and a new case

of herpes, a case of beer

bottles with candles and incense

to chant Gratefull Dead tunes

money come, money go

down to the whorehouse or drunk

at the lake or finally busted

on DWI, maybe his girl

left him or changed her gender

switched majors, dumped courses,

visions of a bleak white line.

Naw, that ain't no blues to me, daddy.