The bluesman makes an assertion, then revises it, restating it. The repetition is no righter than the originary line, but he’s moving on. Perhaps the accumulation of variations will be right. Maybe that tongueless guitar will talk it for him. He clenches his teeth, plays, listens.
The Gospel Singer’s bending the word “Lord” in her mouth. And in Lord there’s the “o” of ode and moan. She pushes it up, but it bats against the ridged ceiling of her palate. She pulls it down but it gutters out in her belly. It takes her no closer to Heaven than her body has ever let her go. Even so: lord lord lord.
