New Orleans...

**notes... I got a real working class blues feel for this write...**

Ya can sit there behind a mic singing the soulful blues
All ya got is troubled times and leathered lipped bad news 
I've been pistol whipped by an underaged kid with gang tattoos 
Have ya been to the bottom of a glass alone with a table for two?

Times were hard, I've got the scars 
Hooker to call, but I drank at bars
Whisky on the rocks, smoking at the docks
I've tasted sugar, but you've got the taste of salt!
The taste of salt!

Ya can walk ya line, tell me stories of ya barbaric crimes 
Tell me of the times ya worked to the bone and kept your smile
Put money on the table, and the one person grateful was your wife
But ya were never in stripes jumping the fence running from ya life

Ya can play the strings of the cotton field and hail all lords above
Ya can play, or swing on the bed posts and still shout out ya love
Ya stand there with ya double breasted jacket and ya silver collar hair cut
My harmonica weeps for ya, as ya liquid isn't from the same blood
Ya liquid isn't from the same blood...

Times were hard, I've got the scars 
Hooker to call, but I drank at bars
Whisky on the rocks, smoking at the docks
I've tasted sugar, but you've got the taste of salt!
The taste of salt!

Ya can preach til ya soul is bleached, but it doesn't go deep
On the streets, glorified R & B pretending the city never sleeps
With white skies of Romeo y Julietta the clouds are parading nostalgia 
With shaded eyes playing the ivory keys you'll never walk the streets of New Orleans...
You'll never walk the streets of New Orleans...

Times were hard, I've got the scars 
Hooker to call, but I drank at bars
Whisky on the rocks, smoking at the docks
I've tasted sugar, but you've got the taste of salt!
The taste of salt! 
Ya not New Orleans
Ya just not New Orleans...