Poem to be Sung / Donald Harris


I've got those weary worn out run down blues, which comes from walking too long in the same damn shoes. Well, I might blame my mama, but she done gone insane, or I might blame my daddy, but he done put a bullet through his brain. So I may as well thump and bump and jump the stump; but why does I always come out feeling like a donkey's rump? Maybe you think I should be eating worms and flies and maggots, until worms and flies and maggots are eating all on me. Well, let me tell you, lady, I ain't nowhere near the fool I used to be. Oh in frightening dreams I see Ezekial's wheel a whirling down on me, and like the harpist of Israel said I shed tears upon my bed, tears of bread to eat, tears in the withering heat. How many tears are shed for many men done gone where the turbid Mississippi flows? Oh who can hear the wail of weeping in the wind, the splashing of rain, the plashing of tears, the dull thudding of a grieving heart? Oh my little darlin' has a mighty fine oven that can bake my loaf of bread, but if she ain't in the mood for cookin', she can leave my weenie hangin' limp instead. Oh how terrible to be a lonesome me. But I loves to see her do her waggle dance, when she wants to show the way to the honey in her hive.

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