Got in the Hot

Blues were got in the hot;
in the wet delta of North Mississippi,
they came sliding out of the ooze
of Itta Bena and Ruleville and Clarksdale;
That’s the Pussy of the Blues.

Cos you know Blues is a woman,
a hot, nasty woman,
a mean-eyed woman
with a cocky smile
and she’s on her hands and knees for you, boy
spreading her cheeks like a cat.

And in that Mississippi delta
you can smell the Blues,
you can taste them
on your tongue,
and feel them
dribble down your chin
like watermelon.

And if that Mississippi delta is Blues’ Pussy
and she’s on her hands and knees,
then perched just above,
like the North Star on a black night,
is the tight little bunghole
Memphis;
that backdoor
where wrong-hole white boys
raced to play the color blue
that they saw with their radio eyes.

Cos the Blues is a hot, nasty woman
and she wants you to stick your nose between
her fat, black sweaty cheeks
and tongue her notes
til she sings that spiritual song.

She’s a hot, nasty woman
so you come in that backdoor,
you farmer boys,
you shit-kickers,
come to Memphis
and tease that bunghole
til she begs to be taken.

And if Blues' Pussy is Mississippi
and Memphis is her bung,
and she's down
on her hands and knees for you,
then Chicago is that spot on the wall
far away across that hotel room
that holds your gaze
while you pound the Blues
and dream of Rock and Roll dollars.

And once you slide it in, boy
you can't never get it back,
and you'll pound her
til your balls are black and blue
and your mouth is full of cotton
and your jaw hangs open
like you seen a ghost
rising from the crossroads
with hellhounds on her trail.