LOUIS
LOUIS
Smokey sound begging to be heard.
Mean back beat that swirls around.
Black man with a voice thick as the
fog that hugs the ground.
Feet tap’n, hands clap’n , don’t just
set there we should be dance’n.
Tunes in the groove makes you
want to move.
Smokey sound never heard in this
part of town. Crazy speakeasy
beat from down on Bourbon Street.
Hot licks from a cool hand.
His trumpet play’n resounds across
this land.
Masquerade ball, Mardi Gras, sweet
heat, late night treat.
Smokey bars, night time rag time
pound,n out a beat that never sleeps.
Jazz fills this hall and spills out into
the street.
Best of all memories fall as the record
spins and Satshmo blows his sound;
just as sweet as when he began.
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