Shemekia Copeland
Crossing the mud flats
of San Francisco Bay,
doing sixty-five,
or there abouts,
on a bright and sunny
summer's day,
when from out of the radio
a bluesy voice came,
and caught me as her prey.
Her voice was young and
with such power,
she really sang the blues!
Her voice ripped me
out of the driver's seat,
and bounce me all around the van,
then threw me out the door
of my own dam truck,
and ran me over once or twice.
All that was left of me
was a bloody mess and
my old white soul which
she kicked up highway 37
until it was black and blue'
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