This poem written by Folwell Dunbar, a New Orleans educator, is reposted from The Lens.
I’ve been to Peru and old Pompeii,
Along the Inca Trail and the Appian Way,
Up slippery slopes and down treacherous ravines,
But I’ve never seen streets like in New Orleans!
Apart from the levees, the city is flat;
Ain’t no topography to know where yat.
Yet the people down here all drive SUV’s
To survive the falls of over 90 degrees.
I once hit a pothole that swallowed my car
It felt like I had been bitten by an alligator gar.
It chewed me up and spit me out
Like a spoiled piece of speckled trout.
Built on a swamp by bungling contractors
The work has provoked countless detractors.
Except for politicians who keep getting re-elected
While our property taxes are sadly misdirected.
Cypress knees and live oak roots,
Busted pipes and bamboo shoots
Burst through pavement with incredible ease
As if they were thrown by the amazing Drew Brees.
Even the streets of the venerable Vieux Carré
Are made of bousillage and papier-mâché.
They trip up tourists and eat Lucky Dog carts,
Upend carriages and paralyze private parts.
The broken streets of New Orleans
Shatter bones and rupture spleens.
They puncture tires and ruin suspensions;
To pay for the damage, you’ll need at least two pensions.
So if you plan to drive in the land of dreams
Prepare to be rattled to smithereens.
Our roads were not built for the faint of heart,
But for masochists who like abstract art.