De crickets they stop singin’
midnight song
where de moss hang low
but the cypress is still
leavin’ me, cher is gone
like de smoke from a fire
and the moon hidin’ its face
behind a benign cloud
thick as a roux
that had been stirred to long
but ain’t nobody seen her here
as I checked boudin shop and de pier
and find a handkerchief soaked in grit
now I am headin’ home done wit de chase
in dis dark lonely bayou place
