if

churchy boys, wauling down on 7th street
tappy with some hymnals, and jumping
with their fever, oh lordy, if my old gray
pants, if

but i don't listen to the whispering of the son
no sugah, don't make absolution, shining at
the greyhound stop, smiling to the cadillacs
clicking nickels, in my old gray pants, if

young sammy ran with the hard cap fellas
while his momma rocked, jumped up to a polka
and sang along in black and white, to her
emerson deluxe, crocheted for salvation, yes

if my old gray pants can keep their magic
you know that pennies find their way, but
dimes are silver, last forever, small and tidy
and my pocket's wide, and deep, only

i haven't told you, cause i keep my secrets
they took my place, at the greyhound stop
where the cadillacs they roam, proud and
sleeker than you know, sniffing for my scent

jesus find me, lost away on 33rd, wiping
chevies, and keep me young, just til these
old gray pants, they lose their charms, if

bees and honey

honey, i'm sweet as melted butter
see the slippers on my bedroom floor
tossed, crisscrossed, cause i like my toes
all bare

brown from swimming in the old maid pond
rustling with the willows, fancying
summer kisses, or was i howling
to the moon

gone ragged memory tales, jimmy-jagged
made up tales, telling stories like my
daddy, passing through the windows
dark in night

ain't girls that pretty, slinky made of
twists and slopes, razzled in the hallway
mirror, spinning like a top, just to make me
sing

but words, all come and go, whispry
and know that i'm a liar, given to
confabulations, a hunter with my soft
feet, i am a caution

or says the honey to the bee