Blow, Blow, Hurricane

She was a voodoo woman from New Orleans; he was a burnt-out hippie from Nashville, Tennessee. They met on a Friday night in Jackson Square. He’d been busking on Royal and he needed a light, she had a candle and she was such a sight, behind her Tarot card table and her card-board sign. She read him his fortune and he sang her a song, they stayed out all night long on the bank of the river sipping some home-made wine. Singing Blow, Blow Hurricane, bring on your wind and bring on your rain. Ain’t you gonna put up more of a fight. Blow, Blow hurricane I’m walking against the wind and I can’t feel no pain cuz I’m holding on to something real tonight.