Saints (day 1865)

Call me lonesome blues
Inside a lost and wholesome moon
I’ve made a call
To all my saints
Left traces without an answer.
And if my phone were to ring out
And voices did talk back
Well, who would be a smoking stack
But the heart of my lonesome blues.
So get me upon a saddle, soon,
I’ve become the warrior long,
I’ve had my beans, cleaned in the stream,
And wishing now for soil.

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