A Picker With the luck to Lose

Oh great spirit of the cotton field,

I felt the rhythm of your blues,

And 'twas in your church where I kneeled,

A picker with the luck to lose.

Down in the Delta my old home,

On up to Memphis Tennessee,

That spirit never left me alone,

A picker I would always be.

Tote that barge lift that bale

With three chords on my six string,

That spirit rode me without fail,

But for my supper I could always sing.

A picker with the luck to lose

Where at the crossroad meant to roam;

Me and the spirit of the blues,

Where picking's all I've ever known.