Hot Summer Blues

Shed snake skin at the side of the track:
burned rubber hose turns the dry dust black,
hot ground scalding through tarpaper shoes,
who said the cold was the mother of the blues?

Brown grass dead waving limp by the acre,
another tan pup auto-mobiled to its maker:
chase down the devil while you're lookin' for clues,
the heat from the flames taints the colour of the blues.

Warm flat beer in a rim-cracked glass,
reach in your pocket feel the hairs on yo' ass:
find a sweated dollar in the better of your shoes;
order seven whiskies as a cure for the blues.