Note 2025-10-07: This poem was written in honor of the great Southern United States fakelore of Robert Johnson selling his soul for music— though it was actually Tommy Johnson in earlier version and it got co-opted either directly by the later Johnson or mis-attributed — and I still like it in the something like eighteen years since I wrote it. Maybe more since I feel this was an earlier poem that I touched up before posting. However, a slightly older Doug can't help but notice the possibly problematic use of the word "boy" in reference to himself — as a white male who felt a bit outcast among his own people — in a story that is a tribute to a literally dispirited Black man. It's not offensive, but it's also not grand. I have changed all uses of word "boy" to "child" just to avoid it.
I've heard old ladies. I've heard their clicking tongues. I've heard words of morning Falling down across the sun. Clicking at me until This poor child runs, this poor dirt white boy. Never been worth no while. Come on down, Robert Johnson, Let's hit up those old cross roads. Come on now, Come on down, Don't you know that Hell's a long way round? Come on down, Robert Johnson, And play your soul. We got Scratch at midnight And a long way to go. I've heard the gettin's good. I've heard that old devil say. I've heard it, dark and moonlit, While o'er that rusty railtrack The fog did lay. Just a poor child, son, just a sad poor child. Never could no guitar play. But words he could choke to say. I walked across corn fields. I walked across nights of wine. I walked 'til the day's been done And hard sweat won its blood. I walked across nowhere, And I got nowhere fast. Excuse me while this old child gets mine. Come on down, Robert Johnson, Let's hit up those old cross roads. Come on now, Come on down, Ain't you heard that Hell's a long way round? Come on down, Robert Johnson, And let's pay our souls. We got Scratch at midnight And a long way to go.