White Boy Tryin’ To Play The Blues
The first of many songs by Roger Scime
Bought a vintage Les Paul, and a big ol’ Marshall Amp
Wanted to be a bluesman, thought that anybody can.
Then I listened to some old vinyl, all it made me was confused
Then it hit me like a Smartphone: I was a white boy tryin’ to play the blues
Well, I fell for Robert Johnson, and his devil-tainted touch
Thought that Lightnin’ had the Mojo—though I never got his stuff.
Drowned myself in Margaritas, ‘cause I didn’t have a clue,
Though I had all the right equipment, I was a white boy tryin’ to play the blues
I knocked back fifths of Stoli’s, tryin’ to make my voice sound rough.
Started bar-fights at the health spa, but they didn’t ‘mount to much.
Those blues cats had their mojo, they had everything to lose.
Though I went and sold my Prius, I was a white boy tryin’ to play the blues.
I’ve got Clapton on my iPod, Jimmy Page is on my mind,
I was sure I could play like Stevie Ray, if I only took the time.
And, really—what’s the difference?—payin’ bills or paying dues?
So, I’ll keep looking for my Mojo, ‘cause I’m a white boy tryin’ to play the blues.
Know where I can get some Mojo? I’m a white boy tryin’ to play the blues.
Even fanboys got some mojo, I’m a white boy tryin’ to play the blues.
NOTE: This song riffs off “White Boy Lost in the Blues” by Sonny Terry & Brownie McGee. This area of the site will feature songs by Roger Scime.
Well, have you heard the latest, ’bout Jack and Linda Sue?
While, Irma’s husband (Tommy’s) steppin’ out with Suzy, too.
And, Chet and Rog, and Richie, are all banging Betty-Jane.
But, what do you think about Christy Love?—She gives cheatin’ a bad name.
The only man she’s with these days is Billy Roy McCoy,
And she says that she loves him, and that he brings her joy.
She says he’s enough for her, and she’s enough for him.
But, the way she’s bangin’ just one man, gives cheatin’ a bad name.
Well, Sally, May, and Mary getting loaded at “The Dew Drop Inn.”
With Jim and Ray and Bobby, getting fortified to sin.
And Sammy, Joe, and Marty are with Jean and Kate and Sue,
At “The No-Tell Motel” down on Main, just having a tag-team screw.
But, Christy Love says she’s above all that kinda stuff
She and Billy Roy McCoy think (the other) is enough.
Why is she screwing just one man, instead of nine or ten?
She’s the kind o’lady who gives cheatin’ a bad name.
I have a friend, McConville, in Belfast he was born.
He traveled to this country with a guitar and a song.
He’d flirt with all the lassies and play them anything.
But to their men he’d stare them down, and to them he would sing:
Shove Another Shillelagh Up Your Nose.
Stick a sprig of shamrock ‘twixt your toes.
There is nothing greener than an Irishman’s demeanor,
When he’s shoving a shillelagh up his nose!
McConville claimed he’d sailed from Erin’s blessed isle,
With leprechauns and shamrocks and his big old Irish smile.
He claimed he’s sailed the ocean, blue water all about.
But he really floated here upon a sea of Guinness Stout!
One time I asked McConnville, “In this troubled time of toil
“Why’d the Irish get potatoes while the Arabs got the oil?”
He winked at me and whispered, in a brogue so rich and thick:
“The Arabs got the oil because the Irish got first pick.”
McConville made me promise, my immortal soul to save,
That when he died, I’d pour a pint of Guinness on his grave.
I tried to keep my promise, but I had a mighty thirst:
He got his pint, but after it passed through my kidneys first.