Some folks will tell you the blues is a woman, br Some type of supernatural creature. br My mother would tell you, if she could, br About her life with my father, br A strange and sometimes cruel gentleman. br She would tell you about the choices br A young black woman faces. br Is falling in love with some man br A deal with the devil br In blue terms, the tongue we use br When we don't want nuance br To get in the way, br When we need to talk straight. br My mother chooses my father br After choosing a man br Who was, as we sing it, br Of no account. br This man made my father look good, br That's how bad it was. br He made my father seem like an island br In the middle of a stormy sea, br He made my father look like a rock. br And is the blues the moment you realize br You exist in a stacked deck, br You look in a mirror at your young face, br The face my sister carries, br And you know it's the only leverage br You've got. br Does this create a hurt that whispers br How you going to do? br Is the blues the moment br You shrug your shoulders br And agree, a girl without money br Is nothing, dust br To be pushed around by any old breeze. br Compared to this, br My father seems, briefly, br To be a fire escape. br This is the way the blues works br Its sorry wonders, br Makes trouble look like br A feather bed, br Makes the wrong man's kisses br A healing.