"I’m lonesome," you sighed in San Antonio
At the sole Colored hotel’s pay telephone,

Its circled numbers grinning as white
As the November moon outside. "You’re what?"

Asked the producer, who’d brought you here to make
Your first record, and sprung you from the jail

An hour ago. "I’m lonesome, Mr. Law,"
You sighed, a prodigal who rubbed his jaw

 Where a nightstick had proffered its harsh kiss
  But didn’t want to take no one’s advice

O not in a new town, the harvest moon
Spotlighting crowds and bars and prostitutes

And streets void of dark men. O vagrancy —
Still you don’t want to take no one’s advice

To shut your open window and get some rest,
To hold tight the coins given you for breakfast

By Mr. Law, the producer whose meal
You’ve now interrupted twice. "This lady, see,

Well, she wants fifty cents, and I still lacks
A nickel." These days the story’s told for laughs,

Though not in full: did the man come, grinning,
And pay your balance? Did you steal a lone kiss?

I never let, you sigh, no one woman
Mistreat me twice, the strings twanging like home,

Where cotton fields spread larger than most cities:
Boll weevils sing "Love’s cheap but never free."