Like a pearl at the end of the chain,

Not a nasty lady, but a sleepy refuge for the believers,

Tempting the willing with a feeble sense of time,

Sodden revelers awash in sensory devoid pleasure,

Some for the first time – for others just more of every time,

Living for the day, the last day, any day, soaked in party clothes,

Shelter from last year’s treasure lost, and locked,

In memories soon to be swept from view in a green flash,

Of briefest measure, green light from the last day,

In a flash over Sunset Island, like sunsets of glorious days past,

Sometimes seen, sometimes appreciated and remembered,

Other times best watched through an upside down glass,

An old timer, very pickled – at a polished bar had a vision,

He saw Papa, once – walking quickly up Duval –  too quickly,

Up past Sloppy Joe’s – he pays attention to no one,

Long night, hat pulled low, heading home to Whitehead Street,

Before day totters in on a Seabreeze, living for the last one,

Seeking one more before the rum soaked night pecks away at you,

Stop to see the Duval trannies, in high heel shoes, clothes too tight,

Watch them blow overblown kisses to strangers waiting for the end,

For that last day, at twelve it begins anew,

For the pleasure of those who come to trumpet, see it in,

Some dangerous consequences down here at the end,

Socked away and forgotten.