New Orleans...

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 the 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 the 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 the 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...