The Legend of Robert Johnson

Mississippi blues in my blood,
New Orleans in my soul.
Goin’ be a famous blues musician,
Though I can’t play.
Sent out from the plantation,
under cover of darkness.
Headin’ down to the crossroads,
Where I was told to run.

Soft, slippery wood against my hand,
my guitar strings howlin’ in the night.
The hot stench of sulfur,
Burning my nose.
An eminent outline,
The nefarious demon stands amidst the moon light.
Breath hot like fire,
His eyes a blood red

His scorched hands seize my guitar,
The wind changes at my feet.
A hollow clunk with screams of sadness,
My guitar gleams with malevolent power.
Given the gift of soul,
Though the price was my own.
I’ve become king of the Delta,
Singing the greatest blues ever created.

The demons and hellhounds in my dreams,
Haunt and torment me with persistence.
I think back on that fateful night,
The devil in his smoldering clothes.
I thanked him for my harmonious deliverance,
He welcomed me graciously into damnation.
Dead for seventy years,
My blues still cry out to the night.

“I pray that my redeemer will come and take me from my grave.”