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By townes van zandt |
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My lover comes to me with a rose on her bosom |
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The moon's dancin' purple |
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All through her black hair |
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And a ladies-in-waiting she stands 'neath my window |
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And the sun will rise soon |
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On the false and the fair |
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She tells me she comes from my mother the mountain |
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Her skin fits her tightly |
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And her lips do not lie |
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She silently slips from her throat a medallion |
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Slowly she twirls it |
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In front of my eyes |
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I watch her, i love her, i long for to touch her |
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The satin she's wearin' |
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Is shimmering blue |
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Outside my window her ladies are sleeping |
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My dogs have gone hunting |
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The howling is through |
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So i reach for her hand and her eyes turns to poison |
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And her hair turns to splinters, |
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And her flesh turns to brine |
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She leaps cross the room, she stands in the window |
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And screams that my first-born |
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Will surely be blind |
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She throws herself out to the black of the nightfall |
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She's parted her lips |
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But she makes not a sound |
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I fly down the stairway, and i run to the garden |
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No trace of my true love |
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Is there to be found |
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So walk these hills lightly, and watch who you're lovin' |
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By mother the mountain |
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I swear that it's true |
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Love not a woman with hair black as midnight |
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And her dress made of satin |
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All shimmering blue |