Samurai Spirit Guitar
In a bourbon shot haze, stoned delta blues man
Sank bones in the rocker, hunched on the porch,
Face parched of youth, cursed of arthritic hands,
Bathed in vampire moonlight, a silvery torch.
Skin tanned to burnish, dry swamp land leather,
Strings cut his flesh as he forced them give birth
To electrical storms in the hot humid weather,
His blues raised the dead from the uncaring earth.
In each note wept the anguishing feudal refrain,
In each bar burned the sweat in the cuts of the slaves,
And the ghosts rose to mourn for their history again,
His guitar called them home from cradles to graves.
With the samurai spirit unbridled, set free,
Belonging to none, pledging service to some,
To this delta blues man it is all he can be
As he plays and he waits for his kingdom to come.
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