Sing me up. Bring the jazz

for the baptizing of souls,

living strong, breathing cool fires from river running out of

the Ohio snaking down mightily

to Louisiana where the steps

get wide and songs speak

of folks left behind, walking

river banks, looking south,

humming the tunes I know,

lifting my blood to Little

Liza Jane while horns push out

the best of brass and snares

scratch a life of rusty and clean

never short of snapping fingers,

tipping hats and running out of kitchens

to the opening of sounds spreading

from windows, washing the air

sweeter than the dawn of bands

making the street cars hurry to town.




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