Oh, take me to the Vieux Carre
Where the mad men run free and wild
I promise not to blush if you show me it all
And I promise I’ll dress in style
We can wage war in the streets
Over bright colored beads
And pretend they are made up of jewels
The horns, they will blare
And the tourists, they’ll stare
They’ll think we’re all made up of fools
But they won’t know the truth
Shared between me and you
That this is all so very fair
These days of halcyon glory
They tell only part of the story
And the rest only locals can share.
Back home, it’s a holiday.
Out here, it’s just another Tuesday.
And there’s something truly tragic about that.
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