|
She stepped down from her carriage, |
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At Ten Vermillon Street. |
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I took off my roustabout, |
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And slung it at her feet. |
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We went into her parlor, |
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And she cooled me with her fan, |
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But said, "I'll go no further, |
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With a fantasy-makin' man." |
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I said, "I'd walk on the Ponchatrain, |
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For what you have today." |
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Just a drink from your deep well, |
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And I'll be on my way. |
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She laughed and heaven filled the room. |
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Said, "This I give to you, |
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This body's wisdom is the flesh, |
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But here's a thing or two. |
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"Death and hell are never full. |
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And neither are the eyes of men. |
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Cats can fly from nine stories high. |
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And pigs can see the wind." |
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She let me make my pallet, |
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In the moonlight on the floor. |
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Just outside of paradise, |
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But right in hell's back door. |
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The image of her nibbled, |
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At the eye of my soul. |
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My dreams were a hurricane, |
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And quite out of control. |
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Then her voice came through the storm, |
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It's more than flesh I deal. |
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And you will have to pay, |
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For any wisdom that you steal |
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I woke to tinted windows, |
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In lavender and red. |
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The first station of the cross, |
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Is just above my head. |
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I awoke to gargoyles, |
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And a hard bench for my bed |
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Jesus Christ and Pontias Pilate, |
|
Were just above my head. |
|
Death and hell are never full. |
|
And neither are the eyes of men. |
|
Cats can fly from nine stories high. |
|
And pigs can see the wind. |
