To the challenge and Jazzfest. May I get there again this next year.
Every year, we went,
Me and my best friend, Phil,
We saved up our money,
Between Europe and bills, bills, bills,
Always Jazzfest, not Mardi Gras,
Because the crowd is more down to earth, not elaborate,
You get the true feel of Bourbon street,
Beyond the booze and the beads,
We travel through the afternoon,
Through the traffic of Atlanta,
Speeding through Alabama, 'til we hit Mobile,
There, we dine, check out the scenery, then press on,
To Biloxi/Gulfport Mississippi, to the casinos,
Play our slots with most of our loot,
We crash out in the hotel, to get ready for tomorrow,
The "House of the rising sun" is less than 2 hours away,
We drive into the horsetrack,
To the land of 1,000 music acts, food and heat,
Every act you ever heard of is there, except the Dead,
Every face is a new culture of happiness, jovial embrace,
And the flags, those colorful flags attached to their bodies,
Representing a family, a feeling, a way of life,
You can find the years here, the 60's, 70's, 80's,
You forget your present, unless it bumps into you,
The last act I saw was the Neville Brothers,
The official New Orleans trademark,
And there it is, Bourbon street,
I sing " A moon over Bourbon street", through the street,
Through the flashing of the beads and other flashings,
And also the wonderful laughter of the spirits,
Through the bottle, through the souls, through the culture,
It's still there, through the water,
And it's in the music, now in foster homes,
Waiting to get back, as I am,
New York transplant in the Big Easy, once again,
The dancer moves without a trace,
Poetry by Saga
Read 500 times
Written on 2006-09-01 at 04:53
Tags Ripple
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Welcoming spring in New Orleans
Every year, we went,
Me and my best friend, Phil,
We saved up our money,
Between Europe and bills, bills, bills,
Always Jazzfest, not Mardi Gras,
Because the crowd is more down to earth, not elaborate,
You get the true feel of Bourbon street,
Beyond the booze and the beads,
We travel through the afternoon,
Through the traffic of Atlanta,
Speeding through Alabama, 'til we hit Mobile,
There, we dine, check out the scenery, then press on,
To Biloxi/Gulfport Mississippi, to the casinos,
Play our slots with most of our loot,
We crash out in the hotel, to get ready for tomorrow,
The "House of the rising sun" is less than 2 hours away,
We drive into the horsetrack,
To the land of 1,000 music acts, food and heat,
Every act you ever heard of is there, except the Dead,
Every face is a new culture of happiness, jovial embrace,
And the flags, those colorful flags attached to their bodies,
Representing a family, a feeling, a way of life,
You can find the years here, the 60's, 70's, 80's,
You forget your present, unless it bumps into you,
The last act I saw was the Neville Brothers,
The official New Orleans trademark,
And there it is, Bourbon street,
I sing " A moon over Bourbon street", through the street,
Through the flashing of the beads and other flashings,
And also the wonderful laughter of the spirits,
Through the bottle, through the souls, through the culture,
It's still there, through the water,
And it's in the music, now in foster homes,
Waiting to get back, as I am,
New York transplant in the Big Easy, once again,
The dancer moves without a trace,
Poetry by Saga
Read 500 times
Written on 2006-09-01 at 04:53
Tags Ripple
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
