…aint no mojo goin’ to fuck up th’ gumbo

…a humid shirt’s obsession on cajun bayou, th’ fireflies blink lazy…
Aint no mojo goin’ to fuck up th’ gumbo or pull me under where
th’ crawdads dance in tiny little slippers. Just like th’ shirt
scratchin’ my back, holdin’ on to th’ skeeter’s breath as I frisk
th’ secrets of th’ bayou behind th’ veil’s second skin, rollin’
on th’ knobs in th’ slingblades arms reflectin’ moonlight. Crackin’
th’ corn whiskey, slidin’ down my throat, hummin’ like ruptured
cicadas, slicker than a frog’s belly. Aint’s no mojo goin’ to fuck
up th’ gumbo.