[Verse: Tank and the Bangas]
Am I still New Orleans if I can’t second line?
If my feet don’t dance and my back don’t bend?
And my hands don’t clap to the beat?
And I like the heat of the summer or the smell of Jazz Fest?
If I dance in the rain with the white folk in my Sunday’s best?
What if my pralines don’t taste as sweet?
And I can’t sew my Indian feathers on or catch fallen beads?
If I hate Bourbon street?
Or don’t speak the way you speak or they speak?
Am I still New Orleans if I never felt super on Sunday?
If I spend my Sundays passing out cranberry juice and communion crackers?
And singin' high?
Watchin' the floor crack open only to see heaven inside?
‘Cause watchin’ children baptized, well that was the most magic I ever saw on this side
Once made God look twice
But then he’d leave to watch the steppers come outside
Tell me, am I still an Orleanian if I don’t suck the head out the crawfish?
And lick the brown from the crack?
Am I still worthy of gold beads around my neck if I only cried once at a Saints game?
Am I still considered a fan if I don’t bleed black and gold and carry a Fleur-de-lis flag?
Am I still seen as whole?
A saint with a ‘lil too much sin on her hands?
Am I still New Orleans if I can’t make the roux?
If my stew not as brown, if I never been to Gene’s?
Or listened to Q93 or spent at night a hole in the wall?
Or stood still when they asked me to catch the wall?
Am I still New Orleans if I don’t like jazz or listen to brass?
Or shake my ass or loudly laugh?
What if I can’t shake or cook or bake?
Or make it to the second line or ride on the lake five times?
Or know my way?
‘Cause they say the city’s a circle
Or don’t know how to Broad and Royal?
Am I still New Orleans?
Am I still home if I came back after the storm?
If I didn’t lose anything but my way?