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You write about a place so dear |
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In all its good and evil |
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A loving cup, an aching scar |
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You need no thread and needle |
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To sew your name into your clothes |
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Or hem a ragged line |
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All muscular and luminous |
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Oh heroine of mine |
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Ladies Oh ladies |
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My ladies |
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My fair and tender ladies |
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You raised yourself from mud and spit |
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And opened up your eyes |
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Stretching out your graceful limbs |
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From heart and soul on fire |
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From sidewalks and handlebars |
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Summer sun and evening stars |
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And unincorporated streets |
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Oh heroine I long to meet |
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Ladies Oh ladies |
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My ladies |
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My fair and tender ladies |
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Ladies |
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You set aside your trays and flowers |
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Like a ball and chain |
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You understood a time and place |
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Upon which you proclaimed |
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Your skirt was not to hide behind |
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Your womanhood no alibi |
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You would not live so man could die |
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Oh white-gloved heroine of mine |
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Ladies Oh ladies |
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My ladies |
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My fair and tender ladies |
