When I’m gone, you’ll hear me whisper in the hot summer sun as you walk through the crossroads and begin to feel undone.
You can try and walk the safe road and still get burned anyway.
For me, it’s always been about the journey.
That’s why I keep a worn-out Bible tucked inside my left boot heel—not for praying, but to balance what I feel.
I’ve got a kiss like summer thunder and a bite you’ll never forget.
You can see me in the shadows, but I might taste like regret.
Everybody lines up with sweet-talking eyes, trying to read the hunger hiding between the lies.
Sugar don’t sway me, and gold buys nothing but false hope.
So don’t step too close.
Fire won’t apologize for grabbing you by the throat.
Stay dirty.
Stay rebellious.
When the bill comes due.
Flirt with danger before it gets you too.
Or keep your distance if you don’t know what to do.
You can chase me through the crossroads, but I know how to cheat death.
You can touch its fire for a minute, but don’t fantasize.
If you ain’t built for forever, you’ll never be immortalized.
I was carved from smoking thunder and river dirt, baptized by Delta blues.
I was never stitched for staying still.
I’m your whiskey salvation.
I’ll kiss you like sin and talk like a saint, all while watching you through a half-cracked grin.
You can try to hold me, but I’ll slip through every time.
Preachers keep telling me I’ve gone too far.
Maybe.
But my soul was never meant to live inside a church stall.
I just keep walking my crooked lines.
I ain’t scared of losing.
I’m scared of running out of time.
So touch my fire for a moment.
Just don’t draw no lines.
Because your emptiness is all you’ll find.
I’m the patron saint of restless hearts.
I’m the devil’s favorite muse.
And when the night gets quiet enough to listen—
You’ll hear it too.
In the thunder.
In the gravel.
In the whiskey you drink.
In the long walk home.
I’m pure Delta blues.
Saint Dirty Face 