Ghost o’ the Blues.

Whip-poor-will guilt -bucket is a tempting dark pit

Filled with born-too-soon moon blues;

My po’ blister’d goin’-nowhere-fast feet don’t fit

My muddy-water, busted shoes.

A fractional tip of another-too-far mile

Weight of the world, tear-blade shoulder

Just ain’t possible fo’ single man-chile

To feel more deserted or get any colder.