The train comes rollin’ on in June—
the Great North Central railroad line
filled with kilos Colombian ice-cold pure
and prisoners wearing suits of black.
It’s so I’m down and can’t feel—
today hell’s furnace makes me pray.

I seek the Most High to love, and pray
for the beat down man with good wife June.
I hurl spit in the eye of senators who feel
not the heart of the little man on the line,
then I don famous shirts of grievous black.
I could do better, I could be pure,

but for bathtub gin and Andes pure,
my knockin’ knees mock God when I pray.
I doubt my God’s hand, black
as stars like a sticky night in June—
they fan out at the table in a line,
cocktail waitress is givin’ me a feel.

I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel.
I focused on the pain with twenty lines of pure.
Yes, in Jackson, by Jackson, off the Northern line,
I do seven lines, a swig of Jack then pray.
I hope to store those blues by June.
With heavenly hymns, pages of black.

I’ll not be coming back in my suit of black.
I hope to go to June begin again to feel.
I’ll be headin’ home to my true one, June
to live in paradise a life ever pure
where we’ll drink coffee on the porch and pray,
and leave these chains on down the line.

What man knows the glory, walks the line?
What man mourns the nation, wearin’ black?
What man bends his hallowed knees to pray?
What man chases pain to feel
to the ends of the Earth’s pure
skies hand in hand for love of June?

I will walk the line, again to feel—
be still in blackest beauty pure.
and pray my blues away with June.