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Coming through the filter, sweet upon my lips |
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the smoke mollifies the lung into which it rips |
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In a sunlit tavern, in a corner booth |
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sucking stale popcorn, there I met dear Ruth |
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She'd only just lost the baby, seven months and a week |
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Drank a month of Seagrams, kissed me on the cheek |
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Never would've been my style |
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But I could spot it from a mile |
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That it would mean a world of good |
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If we got friendly for a while |
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O what a dear my dear girl might have been |
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In my nine dollar room, there was nothing on TV |
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She asked if she could use my toothbrush, "It don't bother me." |
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"I thank you for the company" she most solemnly said |
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When I woke the next morning, she had fallen from the bed |
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Quite a sight I have to say |
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Where once had blossomed a bouquet |
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Now all but wilting like a leaf |
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In the ruthless light of day |
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O what a dear my dear girl might have been |
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Ruth, sweet girl, there's no place for you |
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here in my little nine dollar room |
