When Sloppy Joe’s was moved to Duval Street
the bar was never closed. With drink in hand
old Hemingway and friends waltz to the beat;
a Puerto Rico rum went with the band.
His house on Whitehead Street, when viewed, demands
to know just where he might be writing now.
They say Pauline’s old typewriter still stands.
Tap-tapping may be heard should he allow.
Some say, a figure may be seen, aloft,
through window high. As morning sun sweeps night
away, he may be writing stories oft.
To have what he may hold would be delight.
Oh, Ernest, in this world, you’re still at home,
they say, on old Duval Street where you roam.
(Hemingway did not type, (wrote everything with a pencil), but made sure his wives knew how to type.