f God came to New Orleans He'd stay at the Monteleone
or maybe the Marie Antoinette.
He'd wear a white suit and a big straw hat
and carry a cane with a heavy gold handle.
In the morning he'd sit at the Café du Mond,
sipping black coffee with chickory
and watching the boats and barges on the river.
He'd sip wine slowly in the afternoon and drink his fill
in the evening. Of course he'd not get drunk.
He'd walk around the Quarter, talk to people, laugh at jokes.
He'd tell a few of his own, new ones no one'd ever heard before.
He'd flirt with the ladies, talk sports on the street corner.
God's a Saints fan, you know,
though some years it's hard to tell.
He'd look up old friends; he has a lot of those.
Acquaintances, too, some he's known forever.
He and the Devil would sit on a balcony overlooking Jackson Square
and play checkers.
Devil would cheat, of course, but he'd never win.

God would eat pretty good in New Orleans.
Crawdads, jambalaya, gumbo, red beans and rice.
Don't look for him to spend a lot of time listening to music.
Back home in Heaven he'd got neighbors like Buddy Bolden,
Louis Armstrong, Billie Holliday, Mel Torme,
Elsa Fitzgerald, Errol Garner,
Bix Beiderbeck, Kid Ory, Benny Goodman,
King Oliver, Jelly Roll Morton,
Thelonius Monk, Charlie Parker.
Maybe there's names on that list
you might not expect to find in Heaven.
But they're there.
After all, the Pope didn't invent special dispensation.