By Any Common Understanding of the Situation

The Spanish fingers of night

Strum all the guitars in Vicksburg, Mississippi.
Those fingers clutch the very fishes of the zeitgeist.

Shall we catch those fishes on our birthdays?

They flop in our baskets, but we

Can't hear their final song

Over static from our goddamn radios.

And all the forgotten hopes our fathers

Drop in that dark, that springmelt

Water where we know we slip

Like minnow-bait between our fingers.

Oh, our mothers’ wishes all
Disappear, those ladies who don't

Trust us anywhere.

Still we sing away.

We sing a fey 

And left-hand version of “Green Onions”

To our mothers. We sing it,

And they say:

There ain't no guitar players

Live here in Vicksburg anymore.