My fingers ache, pulsate, and I clench with visible nerves.
Again, I push the rusty harmonica to my lips and the pack is hushed.
My pinky fingers are twitching as I play my starting notes
The melody is hollow but I mean for it to be.
They’re all glaring with their innocent eyes. Now I sigh and sing:

He’s a-comin’ sinners,
The trumps’ will sound,
A-riding the silver cloud,
Ain’t no one can hide.

The final notes shake, employed hurriedly for my purpose.
My dry fingers nervously sliding and pinching together,
I know these college kids have money, I know they do, I know they do.

Ammm Lord I’m-a sing,
Blue dawns a-breakin’
Ammm Lord I’m-a weep
Broken soul you’s takin’

They judge me because I’m homeless,
Because I lay crack, my skin, the white-powder, my sin.
My shedding nails and red eyes are thirsty for more,
They don’t know me, no, no, no I’ll prove they are wrong:

My sistah’s brother a-broken,
******* hunger claimin’ this; his soul.
To the devil or against it He, I stand
Lord help me mend our broken soul.