“In my blue heaven, there’s a bottle of Pontchartrain…”

I’ve never known what alligators dream. Apparently, it’s simple: “Laissez les bons temps rouler.”

CANAL STREET

When George leans back and waives his wyrmbent blade,
When golden Joan rolls up her banns of war,
When late Ignatius lutes his last crusade,
When Roch counts no more crutches by the door,
Then daub our brow with dust—but not today,
As saints salaam to every passing king
And all our sins are snatched and strewn away
Like bright, beloved beads that slip their string.

(For all the entries in this series, hit the “looking up” tab, or read the gargoyle FAQ.)