I want a blues president,
one who know each note of the pentatonic.
I want a president who’s not ashamed to admit he’s smoked chronic.
Because at times the pain’s too strong,
I want a president who’s not ashamed to have been wrong.
I want a president who knows blues notes,
who hears them in his head when he addresses the nation.
I want a president who goes after the blues vote
because he’s drawn to its slow, sad vibration.
And when he watches those words cross the teleprompt screen,
he sees them like well-worn piano keys.
And he’s not afraid to take the message off of the sheet
And try out new melodies.
My blues president’s always listening
to the mood in the air—he doesn’t miss a thing.
The lament of G-flat in the key of C
sung by a mother from Memphis, Tennessee,
as she rocks her child and scrubs the plates—
my president’s not just head of state.
Not just commander in chief,
he wants to see his people free.
And to do that he’ll do anything,
even play a G-flat in the key of C.