Sittin' at the coffee shop on Metairie Road and taking in
some cool jazz horn.
Everything around me is buzzing cause everyones busy
rebuildin' after the storm.
I can smell the city as she gets back to the way she was:
Smooth curves of St Charles, long enticing notes of music coming
out of the Quarter, singing to all of us that missed her while she was gone.

With her Spanish eyes and French accent;
Irish temper and African mytery she sits in the Crescent of the
river and waits for us to be again seduced. The smells of boiled
Crawfish reaches out from every neighborhood to remind us that
she's there....waiting.

It's not New Orleans that left, it was us. She's been there all along
waiting patiently for us to return.