My fingers ache, pulsate, and I clench with tangible apprehension.
Again, I push the rusty harmonica to my lips and the pack is hushed.
My pinky fingers are twitching as I play my starting notes.
The melody is hollow but I mean for it to be,
They’re all glaring with their innocent eyes, now I sigh and sing:
He’s a-comin’ sinners,
The trumps’ will sound,
A-riding the silver cloud,
Ain’t no one can hide.
The final notes shake, employed hurriedly for my purpose.
My dry fingers nervously sliding and pinching together,
I know these college kids have money, I know they do, I know they do.
Ammm Lord I’m-a sing,
Blue dawns a-breakin’
Ammm Lord I’m-a weep
Broken soul you’s takin’
They judge me because I’m homeless,
Because I lay crack, my skin, the white-powder, my sin.
My cracked nails and red eyes are thirsty for more,
They don’t know me, no, no, no I’ll prove they are wrong:
My sistah’s brother a-broken,
Cocaine hunger claimin’ this; his soul.
To the devil or against it He, I stand
Lord help me mend our broken soul.
Last note completed, I look up and see these college kids ensnared,
Now they’re thinking I need their pity, their money.
I don’t need it, I don’t need you, I don’t use drugs.
I am a drug.
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