A simmering of beautiful wisteria

Brought about the hysteria

Of a summer’s day in the Old South

So the tale is told by word of mouth

It seems the rains kept on its falling

Never stopping despite the calling

The calling on the Lord of sweet heaven

Layered on top like butter on bread unleaven

Down there in St. John’s market district

While the dancer’s swelter made things constrict

In the swelter of a summery day

Making the school boys, priests, and gambler’s pray

Of this seen through the half closed eyes of a teller

Who told the tales like no other known feller