Mother Mother Mother I wager you sent me here
To this house in New Orleans where I've 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 pieced 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 lead down to New Orleans
I filled my trunk with my trade dice and homemade liquor
I followed the map put my prison face and I prepared to apply my trade
I emptied my trunk took them in dice then overcharged for my homemade
They said, 'boy it got us drunk this stuff it tastes like kerosene'
They did offend I struck a match I ain't my Father I'm no thief
That place flared up as sure as an eastern sun
I could already hear Mother saying, 'son what has you done?'
I ducked into my trunk as the people around me screamed
I was safe inside my trunk as I brought down that place in New Orleans
Mother I'm sending this telegram though you cannot read
Please send me a map to return me from Orleans
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