Said I’d make it back someday, but it’s been a long time, Lou.
Your hair has gotten long, your accent’s thickened like a roux.
And you never take that mask off anymore, but I know it’s you.
It’s an elegant disguise, all your feathers and face paint.
You can hide what you are, Toulouse, but you can’t hide what you ain’t.
I been baptized in muddy waters, but that don’t make me a saint.
We were running from the cops, barged in on this old-time band.
The sergeant scanned the room, as you took my sweaty hands.
I know you’re an anarchist, but could you at least lead this dance?
You got no love for law and order,
I’ve been trying to shake those blues.
We’re spared no change, given no quarter;
well, what have we got, Toulouse?
But I still think we could make us a home,
squat some shotgun off Frenchmen.
I know you weren’t never my own;
I still hoped you’d be mine again.
It’s chilly sleeping in this graveyard, but it beats the heat we’ve had.
While we’re out living on the streets, they’re building houses for the dead.
They say they need some peace, but I’d have some justice instead.
I know things are bad, Lou, but it won’t be so for long.
You sell a couple paintings, I get my fiddle out of hoc.
I promised you I’d quit fighting, so you know I can’t punch no clock.
Let’s catch that St. Claude bus tonight, ride out to the Lower Ninth.
We can sleep in Tammy’s henhouse, before dawn head riverside.
I know it don’t sound like much, but you ain’t never seen such a sunrise.
feeds for ,