This Ain't No Bar BQ

It was Memphis.
Earned enough money mowing yards during the summer and wanted to make a purchase of my own. My first. Capitalism, my father called it.
Morgan and Lindsey and pronto.
Plunked down approximately $4.37 on a vibrant pair of pink sunglasses and a hot, fat pretzel -sans mustard-, sack of maple nut goodies on the side.
“Are you experienced?” Hendrix sang. “Have you ever been ...experienced?” Gypsy man spoke to me. A light turned on. He stood up next to a mountain and chopped it down with the edge of his hand. 6 was 9! I didn’t know, but the virgin cracks in the four walls hemming me in were anything but indelible; fissures erupting from sheer will and daring do. A price paid. At any cost...

Puked afterwards, bug-eyed in a pink world.
Bad combo.
It was no wonder.
It was Memphis.
Ol’ Furay sings the blues for all of us ...always has, always will. Martin Luther King paid his price of admission. Even Elvis died. I was born there.
Take me to the river. Wash me in the water.
Burnin’ down the motherfuckin’ house.