Red veins beatin’ across a charcoal moon,
Black as a habit, they plow where they want to.
Horseback riders like the headless hounds
In the dog days of summer on the midnight prowl.
The nagtrack is narrow. It’s long and straight.
It comes head-high, creepin’ through the canebrake.
Wooden sharkfins are cypress knees.
The sycamores groan a Melungeon melody.
They’re burnin’ down the barn, burley barn, baby burn!
Well, the Law is like sausage; they both are great,
But nobody wants to see how either get made.
Bullwhips crack and the state line bends.
Whiskey, arson and the lash make empires end.

SOUMETTRE LES CORRECTIONS