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Waist-high to a cricket in the tall grass |
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You and Julie Ann Fitzpatrick were a match |
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Made in the attic of your father's flat |
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Quarter kisses, 'cause love's that cheap |
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At the age when bravery means stepping on a garden snake |
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At Kopel Creek just to hear her shriek |
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You've got the bites and fractured shin to show |
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She was the best three months you'd ever known |
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Sweet slang until the massive town bell tolls August closed |
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The next season, your name weren't more than dirt |
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She was swept up by Clarence McGee |
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A beatnik prick, only out for bank and skirt |
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So you wrote your Uncle Charlie, and for what? |
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A piece of you'd make in just one month |
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If you did whatever the hell he does, concrete or street drugs |
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Would either have been kinder on your nose? |
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It was the most bullshit you'd ever known |
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As you were scrounging in the slums |
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They were already engaged in the capitol, fever and all |
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The city made her sour as a skunk |
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Matted in her yellow locks |
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Were ink and blackberry molasses |
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And she reeked of drunk |
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"I caught Clarence half-asleep in the sack |
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With some slut of a jazz musician, so I hoofed it home |
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And stumbled to your door to say that to this day |
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I never saw how much that summer showed |
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And believe you me, had I had known |
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I can tell you what I'd say if he proposed, no" |
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Your leaving learned me to leave you alone |
