Where the Sidewalk Ends – Your Life
With potholes the size of great crater lakes
And debris as varied as Mardi Gras king cakes,
New Orleans streets are infamously cruel –
They make axles weep and chiropractors drool.
But their adjacent sidewalks are equally perilous;
They make pedestrians cautious and woefully querulous.
Pockmarked, bowed, broken and cracked,
They too are accessories after the fact.
With fissures deeper than the Marianna Trench,
They’re mean and nasty like a Christmas Grinch.
They twist ankles, fracture skulls and stub big toes;
They cause locals and tourists the most dreadful woes.
NOLA sidewalks are really cement bastinados
Obviously designed by X-Game aficionados,
Or Galloping Gertie’s inept engineers
After a night on Bourbon Street drinking Huge Ass Beers.
Pushed up by the roots of ancient live oak trees
Or the sprouting towers of bald cypress knees,
The shoddy cement quakes, quivers and cracks
Like the twisting path of BMX tracks.
Missing sewer lids form Burmese tiger traps,
Resulting in the most unfortunate mishaps.
Entire families have been know to disappear
Only the brave (and bendy) can persevere!
Littered with brickbats from some old broken stoop,
Vagrants, tree limbs, and K9 poop,
Carnival beads, go-cups, and half-eaten beignets
Our sidewalks invoke the most awful malaise.
With Evel Knievel ramps next to every tree
And curbs anointed with bad gris-gris,
Our walkways are better suited for ATV’s
Or perhaps an intrepid Lindsey Vonn on skis.
It takes Bear Grylls’ skills to traverse our asphalt,
Carabiners, rope and a long pole-vault,
A surefooted Sherpa from old Kathmandu,
And the prehensile tail of a kinkajou.
In that famous poem by Shel Silverstein,
The sidewalk’s end cannot be seen;
But here in New Orleans, there’s no need to wonder,
It ends in a cemetery six feet under!