Mother Mother Mother I wager you sent me herenTo this house in New Orleans where I’ve become your fallen sonnYou thought to make homemade wicks so by our lanterns we might seenThe cotton strips that you tore and let soak in the kerosenennWhile you slept I pieced the strips and found a map down to New OrleansnWhen I woke with the sun I put on my old blue jeansnIn the pocket I found the wicks that lead down to New OrleansnI filled my trunk with my trade dice and homemade liquornnI followed the map put my prison face and I prepared to apply my tradenI emptied my trunk took them in dice then overcharged for my homemadenThey said, ‘boy it got us drunk this stuff it tastes like kerosene’nThey did offend I struck a match I ain’t my Father I’m no thiefnnThat place flared up as sure as an eastern sunnI could already hear Mother saying, ‘son what has you done?’nI ducked into my trunk as the people around me screamednI was safe inside my trunk as I brought down that place in New OrleansnnMother I’m sending this telegram though you cannot readnPlease send me a map to return me from OrleansnThen you can rip this telegram and soak it in kerosenenTo replace the wicks I stole from you the light will guide me back from New OrleansnnHeres me with this apology of a lifen