Were you there, when they dragged Willie from the bus

Were you there,
they they drug Willie from the bus,
so near the Vermillion River,
that flowed into the bay,
where in 1961 his uncle and sons,
shrimped for many a day.

Were you there,
when the bifold doors opened,
and Willie stepped forward,
and invited the officer in,
the officer asked Willie to exhale,
the officer smiled,
and asked Willie to exhale again.

They could have let our hero go,
with the herb and the mushrooms,
which he could have gotten from,
the bovine pasture of his dear Aunt Ruby,
as has many of a Louisiana boy,
after a light rain,
there in the piney woods,
of Louisiana.

Were you there,
when they commandered Willie bus,
searching the suitcases,
there so close to Bayou Teche,
as if seeking some contraband,
only finding those mushrooms,
to be eatern in a morning omelette,
with some feta cheese,
and sun dried tomatos.

Were you there,
when they pulled Willie from the bus,
a long hard road traveler,
bringing Americas music to the land,
the officer could have commented,
I see you roll your own,
just like my father,
who grew his own,
there on Contraband Bayou,
calling its Gods Tobacco,
and mixing it with Mullein,
which is the native tobacco,
growing in every field.

Were you there,
there by Whiskey River,
when they pulled Willie from the bus,
as the bi-fold doors opened,
and Willies smile shone,
just like the morning sun,
a plume of smoke,
came forth from his mouth,
that would have extinguished,
the most ancient volcano,
and killed a Bayou Teche gator,
at fifty yards.

Were you there,
when they busted Willie,
down by Breau Bridge,
while driving across America,
bringing music to the land,
with a smile like the morning sun,
that greeted every lass and lad.

Were you there,
when they pulled Willies bus over,
to the side of the road,
went through his boxers,
hopeing to find some illegal cargo,
green horned troopers,
with little to do,
pulling Americas bio diesel off the road,
their politics dont add up--to two.

Eunice and Blue

Eunice, a town that stands with a view,
in Eunice, there are no skyscrapers,
There are rice dryers,
where the grain is store,
after it harvest,
these monoliths of wealth,
of Eunice and Blues bounty,
as the thrashers beat the straws,
and the rice is shot like bullets,
in the trucks as they wait in line,
while drivers listen to KJEN,
with fingers tapping in rhythm,
upon the window sill,
and feet in beat,
and the sounds float across the fields,
the announcer breaks to tell,
of a impending car sell.

In Eunice there are no skyscapers,
as the grievers stand silently in the rain,
a rainbow touches the horizon,
the priest blesses the gathered,
to place the matron in the crypt,
to spend eternity with her husband,
who danced upon the porch,
many of a saturday morning,
to a fiddler and accordin,
who stood in the yard,
as the crawfish started their boil,
in Eunice there are no skyscrapers,
in Eunice there are no skyscrapers.