Chris O'Carroll

Yes, I remember Bourbon Street: The pulse of jazz; the girls (and boys Done up as girls) in clubs outside Which barkers make their ribald noise; The tourists slurping Hurricanes, That steel-toed boot kick of a drink That prettifies a brutal dose Of alcohol in whorehouse pink; The tacky souvenir . . . . Continue Reading »

Mired deep in winter solstice cold and gloom, Craving festivities aglow with cheer, We lose our heads and foolishly assume Debt we’ll regret all through the coming year. Our budget’s of mere Cornish game hen size, And we should choose a dinner fowl to match it, But splurge instead, unthrifty . . . . Continue Reading »