drunk himself to death, just like his daddy, only quicker

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“Did you ever write any protest songs yourself? You know, like Leadbelly or Big Bill? ’Bourgeois Blues’—that kind of thing?”

“Yeah, Leadbelly,” said Hawk, eyes lighting up. “I met that gal-boy down in Angola, wouldn’t let that motherfucker near me. Course I ain’t saying what I was doing down there, but they had him in for some bad shit, man. Everybody knowed the white man bought his freedom, just to get hold of the rights to his songs. Leadbelly told me so hisself. Except they never were his songs anyways. Got ’em off a cat name Shorty George—you know that song he used to sing, yeah. Well, ain’t that the way it always is, though? They pay you just exactly what they think you gonna take—”