Garland Lee Thompson Jr.

Blow bad Blues Brother Lateef, blow mean bad Blues, with jump and
swing, and evv-a-thang! 'Til the 2 'Til the 4 'Til the 6AM sleepy time
when the sunrise sits just over Earth's eyes, so languid on the

Blow bad Blues Brother Lateef, blow mean bad Blues the world has never
heard before! Blow to the Four Corners of the Earth! Cover the sky
with your horny sax sounds swingin' with the back-beat Boogie Woogie
of bar room brawls, Big Joe Turner, and the workin' man drinkin' heavy
to ease the pain of being stepped on.

Of brothel houses, abusive spouses, bloody crosses burning in the heat
of the night. Of blowin' a tire on the Cadillac! Damn! Flat City
halfway to the gig! On the run, and caught somewhere between nowhere
and nowhere at all.

Blow bad Blues Brother Lateef, blow mean bad Blues of your hand
slidin' up her warm thigh. Makin' love to her like you make love to
your axe! Sweet Sula momma snakin' hot tongue down to your Medulla
Oblongata! Oh baby! Gotta go gotta go I gotta go

Blow bad Blues with Brother Lateef, blow mean
bad Blues! Sing lullabies to the memories of hot
Havana nights, drinkin' wild Cubano Rum,
watching Fidel and Che takin' back the banks,
Sugar plantations and kickin' out the Mob!
Ha! No mas Traficante for Santo's boys!
And Sweet Sula momma shakin' her hips not
two feet from the band, while Viva La Revolution!
raged just outside the door. Her cheeks and
muscles bulging with sweat, and the sound of
gunfire. The fabric covering her Sweet Sula
momma curves stretching to impossible tightness.
The shape is where it starts, man!

That's what Brother Lateef says when he blows
bad blues, when he blows mean bad blues,
and whispers: It's all in the tellin'. He whispers this
in my ear, then blows a G Flat, stopping to smile big
at me who is listening to him blow mean bad blues.

Blow Brother Lateef. Blow those Blues in my ear
and out the door to the streets where we the people
need them. Where the sidewalks crack under the
weight of the heavy hearted whose hope is gone with
the slash of a knife.

Send them out with a voice pure enough to STOP! the fists that pound a
woman's bare white flesh on crowded Sixth Street and Avenue A en el
Loisada as witnesses of all my colors stand by cheering for more:

Yeah baby! Kill that honky bitch! Vaya!

Lay those Blues down hard to mend the broken of spirit. The lost and
forlorn, tattered and wartorn, and when you've comforted all of them,
turn your Blues to the one who looks into the mirror, and calls
himself me.

Blow bad Blues Brother Lateef. Blow mean bad Blues. And I'll meet you
out at the Chicken Shack. A bottle of wine in my hand, with my soul