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It’s that time of year again vacation time. I love going on vacation and this year I thought it would be fun to take a trip based on the blues. Every time I go my wife says baby please don't go. She is a hard loving woman.

I always leave early Sunday morning because if you’re going to sweet home Chicago that’s the official time to leave. Come to think of it, if you go on any blues trip, it’s a rule; you must leave early Sunday morning. I don’t like driving during those Stormy Mondays.

I do not like going to a big city too many heartaches. The road to the big city is bad you’re going up, You’re going down, down up what am I supposed to do. Besides that road being bad there are way too many crossroads for me. I might just stop on the outskirts of town

A farm would be nice to visit. The last one I went to was fun. I never could find that little red rooster though. We stayed in the farmhouse. It was painted a bright red. The only problem with that red house, I had one hell of a time with the lock on the front door. The key never seemed to fit right.

I have to go out into that abyss of blues, that home of the hoodoo man and find out where the little red rooster has gone. I think he’s hiding in that red house over wander or maybe he’s on that parchment farm. You know the one further on down the road. It’s around the corner from that restaurant whose chef tells everyone to come into his kitchen and only when it’s raining outside. When you’re outside that place you better look out for them Hellhounds. I hear they bite. When you leave that red house you of course always have to exit through the back door, man. Behind the red house is a river of whiskey and in that river is a diving duck. It seems that duck is drunk as a skunk because he keeps diving to the bottom of that river and drinks himself back up. Somehow I think the duck is in cahoots with the red rooster. I really can’t prove it though.

I do have to travel further on down the road so the dark don’t catch me here.

Terrance "Gatorman" Lape

Copyright Terrance B. Lape

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