Jasper words pour from his lips,
in contrapuntal time.
They shuffle just behind the beat,
they strain to make their rhyme.

Sweat drips on his old guitar,
strings bend and cry and sing.
Hear the Blues Man on his throne,
he makes his guitar ring.

Air thick with smoke and rhythm,
like some ancient ritual dance.
Mesmerizing, hypnotizing
he puts you in a trance.

Weaving tones and chicken bones,
with cheap flat lukewarm beer.
There's no place you would rather be,
than with the Blues Man in your ear.

To take bad juju off his strings,
he'll use the John the conqueror root.
He ain't got a *** to **** in,
But he's got a blue silk suit.

His shoe keeps time, heel to toe,
with a whiskey voice he croons.
Harp in its rack, he wails away,
a Little Walter tune.

With gospel affectations,
he preaches to his throng.
"I saw her kissin' Willie last night,
she went and done me wrong".

"I'm gonna take the next thang smokin'
out of this here town".
Then he slides a bottle across the strings,
and it makes a mournful sound.

You forget about your troubles
when you get what he's layin' down.
He'll take you to the other side,
when the BluesMan comes to town.