Dixieland Wordpad

Way down here In the swamps of Dixie, Where I learned to dance With gators grinning, There’s music like none You’ve ever heard. It laces the bayous In passionate tones, Enough to make you Want to move your feet. There’s more history In this place Than you might imagine, Alive and burning On the edges Of modern civility. It refuses to die, Won’t settle for living In the past, As though it didn’t matter. This is where I studied life and love, Knowing my neighbor, Sharing the burden Of cottonmouth dreams And moss-hidden nights Beneath sweltering pines. This is who I am, As salty as the sweat Upon your brow. But the music Has been silenced, My people no longer sway In the humid breeze, Muted by ravaging winds And torrent tides. Drowning in the madness Of hopelessness, We don’t feel Our narrated past anymore. Now we count The changes of hours Marked by saturating grief; There is only today. No human should have to bear These ravages Polluting our memory, Yet we are helpless To prevent The scars for generations. Credence Clearwater Revival, Tennessee Williams, Affects my blood, And I cannot forget Louis Armstrong Or B.B. King. Jimmy Buffett, Harry Connick, Jr., And scores of others Will help them survive. Till I once again Find myself In the House of the Rising Sun, Until a Streetcar Named Desire Fills my senses, I shall mourn, My tears flooding The mighty Mississippi River, To overflowing. Way down here In the swamps of Dixie, Where I learned to dance With voodoo grinning, I remember the music, Taste the brackish waters, Before Katrina knew me, And standing below an American Flag, I think the South Shall rise again.