It happened in the bayou

     yes way down in the bayou. 

The streets were iridescent 

     in their darkness,

Each lightbulb atop a tall

     pole, broken and shattered. 

A slight magical scent of cinnamon

     floated in the dark swampy air. 

Not even a rising sun 

     red as a newly plucked beet,

Could chase the undesirables away;

     and they had no recourse. 

Not to be defeated and in need

     of drink and water,

A tremble of fear spread throughout

     the group of refugees. 

Without a jacket, scarf or glove,

     all would kick the bucket 

before their second meal unless 

the elk they hunted, would soon fall.