Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Ragin' Cajun

Mother mother mother mine,
I wager you sent me here,
To this house in New Orleans
Where I've become your fallen son.
You thought to make homemade wicks
So by our lanterns we might see
The cotton strips that you tore and let soak in the kerosene.

And while you slept I pierced the strips
And found a map down to New Orleans.
When I woke with the sun I put on my old blue jeans.
In the pocket I found the wicks that lead down to New Orleans.
I filled my trunk with my trade dice and homemade liquor.

I followed the map put, on my prison face
And now prepared to ply my trade.
I emptied my trunk, I took them in dice
And overcharged for my homemade
And they said "boy it got us drunk; this stuff tastes like the kerosene"
And They did offend, then I struck a match;
I ain't my father I'm no thief

That place flared up as sure as an eastern sun
I could already hear my mother saying "son what has you done?"
I ducked into my trunk,
As the people around me screamed.
I was safe inside my trunk as I brought down that place in New Orleans.

Mother now I send this telegram though you cannot read.
Please send me a map to return, return me from Orleans.
And then you can rip this telegram and soak it in kerosene
To replace the wicks I stole from you;
The light will guide me back from New Orleans.

And here is me with this apology of a life.
And here is me with this apology of a life.



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