Doomed?
New Orleans is home.
It’s all right, darlin’, we stride through the risin’ mud on stilts.
Yeah, we might soon sink and never rise up,
But we’ll do it to a joyous trombone flare.
Come squish with us.
Swat those giant bugs.
Eat shrimp gumbo that’ll jolt your meltin’ body.
Stroll alleys of cobblin’ stone.
Tiptoe to peek through iron-leaved gates:
Glimpse buzzing gardens tropical,
Spy garment-shedding liaisons not typical.
The throb of it returns after jazz-backgrounded, crazy onslaughts.
Tell me to scram?
You’re tellin’ me to leave my succor.
City gonna drown? Maybe.
But not ’til long after we breathe a final time.
