[ Featuring The Bangas, Robert Glasper ]
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, of the smell of Jazzfest
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 Indians feathers on or catch falling 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 spent my Sunday's passing out cranberry juice and communion crackers
And singing high, watching the floor crack open only to see heaven inside
'Cause watching children baptized, well, that was the most magic I ever saw on this side
Once made God look twice, well, then He'd leave to watch the steppers come outside
Tell me, am I still an Orleanian if I don't suck the head off 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 little 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 Genes
Or listened to Q93, or spent a night at a hole in a 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 get on Broad and Royal
Am I still New Orleans
Am I still home if I came back after storm?
If I didn't lose anything but my way
