Ah, New Orleans, that decrepit old whore!
A face rife with fissures and echoes of jazz,
The half forgotten jazz that plays to ghosts,
With notes of a lost generation and whiskey
Flavored by sugary stagnation.
Sit ‘n a bar, dine on oysters, with yesterday’s
Stale recipes and coagulated sauces.
The diners come to say they’ve been here.
Oh, yes, I’ve seen the Street Car Named Desire,
And don’t know Tennessee Williams.
And Bill Faulkner? Who is he?
And never heard Louis or Al blow their
Dented trumpets or Pete his licorice stick.
The streets reek of tawdry bodies sick with lust
And find romance a bothersome chore.
Oh, yes, a weak old whore, with cracked teeth
And dusty hair. See how her rouge has faded
And her mascara creeps down her legs.
A ragged whore whose beauty is blighted
And cracked with age, her hair a dusty mop.
But, bring your money and your sex, the old
Girl needs it.
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