Ghosts Of The Quarter Poem by Timmy Curran

I boarded a plane to New Orleans
Woke four days later in Mexico
There was a bed somewhere
and I´m sure I stayed there
But how I got here I just don´t know

New Orleans was grand from what I recall
The blur of lights and sights of it all
were left for whatever pillow I laid my head on
I know there was one,
if it was hard or soft, I just don´t know

Got a voodoo headace, got jazzy blood
There´s a man named Lyle on Frenchman Street
Who says he´s never left the street,
twas all he knew
Whether that girl was really his sister, I just don´t know