Do beers pour on Bourbon,
as offerings for the dead,
bodies lost,
do you hear them,
in your head,
talking,
walking down the quarter,
drunken and raving in the morning like mad,
can't you see why the Mississippi is sad?
weary,
writhing,
winding across the sand,
people wailing, waiting desperate for a hand,
swallowed by tragedy,
by poverty,
by prejudice,
and indifference,
all around,
how can you stand,
by on Bourbon and revel like a clown,
while this city watches with a frown,
as your pour your beers on down,
without reverence,
without rememberance,
of the restless spirits that here abound.