By Andrew R. Duckworth
A street with neon and brass
Smoky lounges behind painted glass
Old brick buildings with a lot of blues
Good Memphis food and plenty of booze.
An old trumpet belts from a man on the street
With a bow tie and scuffed shoes on his feet,
But his old hat is full of money
On a cool fall day when the sky is sunny.
But when the light fades and neons fire
The street grows crowded with feet, not tire.
The blues music and smell of meat on a grill,
Over a couple of beers,
Drowning away the fears,
Over guitar riffs the whole street hears,
And a celebration and night thrills.
That’s what I remember about Beale.