It was mid-September when we got back
from traveling around the south.
I sat and looked at the photographs
of the victims with an open mouth.
They were stranded on the roof,
they were packed without food and water,
they were forced by feds to move,
Betsy’s grown up sons and daughters.
We had just been through New Orleans
only three short weeks before.
Listenin’ to jazz on bourbon
with no idea what was in store.
And we drove up the side of the Rockies,
as Katrina broke through those Levees.
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