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They unearthed him from the Delta dust/ Do Fletch, a name whispered on the wind, in a rusted tone/
 Born and bred in NOLA's humid heart, A city sculpted by sorrow, torn apart, then rebuilt from the start/
 Do Fletch not a singer, not an artist, not a star in the sky, but a conduit, a vessel, for the blues to cry/
 His voice, a Mississippi moan, rising slow and thick, like the river itself, carrying history/ He didn't sing the blues, he bled them onto the stage/

 Each note is a memory, etched deep in a man's age. Pain poured from his pores, a vintage Bourbon stain/
 Every tremor in his throat, a forgotten hurricane/ He sang of levees broken, promises betrayed/
 of rent past due, and his future slowly fading away/
 He sang of love lost in the back alleys and grime, of the weight of generations pressing down on his time/
  His voice, a deep-telling blues, the kind that crawls under your skin, A symphony of sorrow, a chorus of what might have been/
 He didn't offer hope, he didn't offer light, He offered truth, raw and unflinching, in the dead of the night/
 So listen close, to the ghost in his gravelly tone/
 Do Fletch, rediscovered, no longer alone/
 Let his pain be a reminder, a lesson learned in hard sorrow, that the blues ain't dead, just waiting to rise again/
Nuff said/

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