Sunday, August 27, 2006

lost, riff #4

i'm making potions for my southie boy, dark-up from his boylston
toughies, all asmudge with streetly rambles, 'less he's lost me, where
we hide from daddy's bruises, and let the whiskey do our supper song

he sees me with my morning shadows, hid beneath some winter
covers, laughing with those silly pixies, maybe crying for my tinker's
old despair, wondering if this dust can make me fly, 'cause i would

take my lad away, wash his feet in the salty sea, wash these tearsome
days until he sleeps his smiling sleep, 'less he's lost me, dancing down
old riff-raff jingles, searching out a fancy gentleman, or two, or were you

simply dreaming


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