Ribbon Bows

There is a spring, not far from here,

The water runs both sweet and clear--

both sweet and clear, and cold:

could crack your bones

with veins of gold.

I stood, a-wagging, at the tap;

just a-waiting on the lagging, rising sap.

I held the cold tin ladle to my lip.

At the Shrine of the Thousand Arms,

I lowered my eyes to sip.

What a beautiful day to catch my drift,

or be caught up in it.

You want your love, Love?

Come and get your love;

I only took it back

because I thought you didn't.

How my ears did ring,

at the municipal pound,

from that old hangdog

to which I was bound:

curled 'round the bottom rung--

doesn't anybody want you?

Well, come on, darlin.

I could use someone like you around.

I am not like you, I ain't from this place.

And I do reserve the right

to repeat all my same mistakes.

And, in the night, like you,

I certainly bite and chew

what I can find,

and never seem to lose the taste.

What a horrible face I feel me make--

For Pete's sake,

what you have told me, I cannot erase!--

(Though I keep on saying,

and I do believe, it is not too late).

All day, you're hassling me with trifles:

black nose of the dog, as cold as a rifle,

indicating, with a nudge,

God, No God. God, No God.

Sweet, appraising eye of the dog,

blink once if god,

twice if no god.

My mama may be ashamed of me,

with all of my finery:

carrying on,

whooping it up till the early morn,

lost and lorn,

among the madding revelry!

Sure, I can pass.

Honey, I can pass.

Particularly when I start to tip my glass.

I'll be a sport,

and have a go at that old song,

singing unabashed, about

"Them city girls,

with their ribbon bows,

and their fancy sash..."

But, though I get so sad

(could swear the night

makes a motion to claim me,

around that second verse),

I reckon I've felt worse,

and still held fast.

But, later on, when I am alone,

alone at last,

then I take my god to task.

I take my god to task.