Ol' Marie Mississippi by the river banks. Mark Twain steamboats slipping past iron barges, Gliding toward Vicksburg And the sad mud of New Orleans. Old cotton down there. Old men down there, Drying in the cruel sun Of August, dying in the Mosquito nights Of summer. Heat-flash lightning. Cajun shotgun man, Gunning for food In the dank bayous Of voodoo-witch midnight and cottonmouth slime. Dead don’t stay in ground Down there, Too wet, the ground, Too dead, the dead. Too dark, the dark. Gators get em anyhow---- Or ol’ Marie. Ol’ Marie, She get em sure. Better feed them gators. -Terry Young