Born To Be Blue Poem by Barry Middleton

Some of us are born to know it,
guitar men riding the blues train,
southern gumbo, smoke and booze,
the big muddy mojo voodoo beat.

Born to be blue is born to the blues,
heart of Bourbon and Beale Street,
up from the dust devil crossroad,
work and sweat, a wailing sound.

From Lead Belly and Muddy Waters,
the blues has told the painful tale,
broken bottleneck slide and a 32-20,
blues kings moaning and howling.

Some are born to feel the blues,
born to a rhythm, tapping a shoe,
conjure of the mournful hoodoo,
bringing it home from Louisiana.

The signalman calls from the rail shack,
I hear the ring of steel down the track.
Pack my bag; I'm late for the show,
the western clouds are hanging low.

I got me a faded old two dollar bill,
and a broken down six string guitar.
If I ever spend that deuce greenback,
baby gonna have to scratch my back.
I was born to the blues and I know it.