Do Fletch NOLA Blues

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/