Shrimp and Saints (Креветки и святые)

Can dream.
Back home where the cypress leans, kids run out,
Grab my knees, steam from the pot, red shells pile,
Mama hums soft in the steam.
Slip that tip money on the counter, kiss a cheek,
Grab my old guitar, gotta chase that little extra,
Then I'm gone into the dark.
I got Bayou mud on my boots,
But my heart's on these streams; sing for the shrimp in the Saints till somebody hears me.
From flaming skies on the ocean to this backroom balcony,
I bring home the tide and the tune so my people can eat,