Doc Watson
The keen golden beams
must have danced out of
his Sax. A Doctor of soul,
he was New Orleans' son.
His crinkly mustache, the
mark of the fading sunset.
The shooting star sprinted
as breakneck as the A-train.
His poor sax turned to dust
with his glasses shirts and caps,
because Katrina came to town
and she turned off all the records.
I wish I could have met you
I heard that the president did.
I wish you could have taught me
because no Otto Link can save me,
my saxophone can't shine quite yet.
Jazz is still there so
there's no need to fear.
Songs at night are playin
when the moon is whistlin,
the waves are softly groovin,
the Bourbon joints are jumpin,
and nearby ole Doc Watson's layin.
Victoria Theatre
He awakens when the owls do
and he's older than he looks.
He sports a tan jacket and velvet vest
that he pulled from Dorothy's dream.
He never takes, but only gives.
His hands have graced presidents
and even Hyenas with grace
like a gentleman skating on frozen ice.
He's very nice to children,
both the sugarplums and newsies.
He guides them as best as he can
in an industry with only flame in its hand.
At the witching hour when all folks are gone
he has night terrors he'd never talk about.
He's scared of ghosts more than Macbeth,
and he's scarred from the fires
where he almost caught a death.