Talkin’ Social Violence Blues
Well I ain’t a judge, in
a chair, and a confidante,
from a silver thistle.
And there you see
Nelly, shaking her head.
Don’t you pretend
to be as much as you feel, in
the hole, encircling
the blade. Why cannot you say
you know the kicks
it gets are its desert, and I
don’t believe the
dead are not for sale. When the old
house was quiet; the
funeral, my
master and the sharpness
of the world! Give me courage
and rekindle
the Spring, snatching and smoothing out
the attorney, when
you would turn me out
I suppose, anyhow. You can
always trust me with those big chaps
who blow about what they
do, then burst forth
anew. I went to be
struggling in the state of mine?
Using Gnoetry0.2
End-user changed a few pieces of punctuation and added italics.
Texts:
Mississippi Sheiks, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Blind Willie McTell, Blues Lyrics
Edith Wharton, The Custom of the Country
Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights
