More Music & History.

Robert Johnson Sold His Soul To The Devil

A jet-black man in a dark grey suit,
A boy wearing all he owned.
A contract signed, no
Lawyers present, no
Blood spilt.

I know nothing about the
Plains of the Mississippi,
But I felt him standing,
At the crossroads, crying.

With his piece of old wood, shaped like
Someone’s grandma,
A 1931 Gibson L-1,
He sat there whistling
And aching to be on his way.

He wanted to come with me.

Up to this point,
He existed just between
Sheets of vinyl
And hushed rumours
Of plantation workers,

Of Delta-dwellers,
Cotton pickers,
Jazz musicians,
And the assembled choirs of angels.

But he was in town for just one night,
Back to reclaim the blues from Whitey
And those who don’t know what it means
To dust your broom
With a kind-hearted woman.

He had his Tennessee flat-top box
And that dumb smile of a man
Who knows he was out of his depth
Many years before.

That one suit he owned,
With the wide lapels and tight pinstripe,
Was draped over his bony frame,
His big fedora cocked sideways;

I felt every song love ever written
Sublimate away as
He walked onto the stage,
Unafraid of death.