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.