Poem: Deal

I took my battered blue guitar – and I walked on down to the crossroads. Wasn’t sure whether I was going to make me a deal with the devil or not; wasn’t sure if I was fixin’ to die. But I had to go down to Mississippi; had to go to the home of the blues. It’s easy – with a battered blue guitar – in Mississippi. It’s easy to get in the mood. It’s the cor…