Mother, mother, mother mine, I wager you sent me here

To this house in New Orleans where I'd become your fallen son

You thought to make homemade wicks so by our lanterns we might see

The cotton strips that you tore and let soak in the kerosene

♪

While you slept I paced the strips and found a map down to New Orleans

When I woke with the sun I put on my old blue jeans

In the pocket I found the wicks that led down to New Orleans

I filled my trunk with my trade, dice and homemade liquor

♪

I tore up the map, put on my prison

Face and I prepared to apply my trade

I emptied my trunk, I took them and

Dashed it on the child called my homie

And they said "Boy, he's got a trunk

He's dumping in like the kerosene"

And they did a flint and I struck up

My giant my mother no I'm no thief

That place flared up as sure as an eastern sun

I could oughta hear my mother saying, "Son, what has you done?"

I ducked into my trunk as the people around me screamed

And I was safe inside my trunk as I

Brought down that place in New Orleans

♪

Mother now I send this telegram though I know you cannot read

Please send me a map to return, return me from Orleans

And then you can rip this telegram and soak it in kerosene

To replace the wicks I stole from you, the

Light will guide me back from New Orleans

And here is me with this apology of a life

Yeah, here is me with this apology of a life