His hair, once a slick wing of midnight crow. They once called him king. Now carrying the weight of revivals for the dead. Now a ghost in a wingless white jumpsuit. Where the ghosts of hounds still bay at the memory of a boy who had climbed too high and fell too hard into the American mud. Tethered to a hole in the ground.
Well, you can knock me down, step in my face
Slander my name all over the place
Do anything that you want to do
But uh-uh honey, lay off of my shoes
