The French Quarter

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 shops where
T-shirts emblazoned with obscene
Cartoons and slogans crowd the shelves
(Just walking past, you feel unclean);

And always jazz, sacred syncopation
Both steeped in and transcending sin—
Hell has no hotter sound, and Heaven
Swings as the saints go marching in.