Mississippi King.

Starry country night.

A million miles

into the middle of nowhere.

Mississippi ain't no place

to write a happy song

when your Daddy done gone.

Grandmama does her best

to raise a boy to a man.

Yes, the very best she can.

Mama would've done it,

but money don't grow

like the cotton.

Some things are best

forgotten.

In a cabin in the south,

a King was born.

In the night,

he hears the soft wind

calling through the window;

the creatures in the meadow. 

The bullfrog's on the water.

The moon, the sun's sad daughter.
No one can teach the blues,
it's something in your bones.
it's a callous on your hands,
a chair rocking alone.
No one can heal a hurt,
that's deep within your spirit.
But his guitar begins to play,
and everyone can hear it.

He thinks to himself,

that he is destined.

No one would guess

that in the future's daily news,

the boy from Mississippi 

would be 

King of the blues.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012