Traces of Son House (Grings/Andrade)


I see the black engine steam
Snarling in the metal like a beast


I say to myself it’s not real, it was never clear
It’s trying to hold, trying to hold the wind


My gal has gone
Before changing the season
She was mine


I say to myself it’s not real, it was never clear
It’s trying to hold, trying to hold the fall


I walk beside a strange man
Seems like a face of Son House


I say to myself it’s not real, it was never clear
It’s trying to hold, trying to hold the hill

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