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.
