He found himself waiting again. Out at the crossroads, out on the lam. This time not running, this time by right. A road-side hitcher waits for headlights. "The blues won't bring me down." That pick-up truck stopped. "Where you headed, kid?" "Back to the boardwalk coast to fix the wrong I did." That old man would bring him just as far as he could. His hellhound sniffing out for a trace of any good. The hope he's chasing. The blues he carried are dead and buried.
https://primoaccordo.net/defeater/blues.htm