There is a spring, not far from here, The water runs both sweet and clear — both sweet and clear, and cold: could crack your bones with veins of gold.
I stood, a-wagging, at the tap; just a-waiting on the lagging, rising sap. I held the cold tin ladle to my lip. At the Shrine of the Thousand Arms, I lowered my eyes to sip.
What a beautiful day to catch my drift, or be caught up in it. You want your love, Love? Come and get your love; I only took it back because I thought you didn't.
How my ears did ring, at the municipal pound, from that old hangdog to which I was bound: curled 'round the bottom rung — doesn't anybody want you? Well, come on, darlin. I could use someone like you around. I am not like you, I ain't from this place. And I do reserve the right to repeat all my same mistakes. And, in the night, like you, I certainly bite and chew what I can find, and never seem to lose the taste.
What a horrible face I feel me make — For Pete's sake, what you have told me, I cannot erase! — (Though I keep on saying, and I do believe, it is not too late).
All day, you're hassling me with trifles: black nose of the dog, as cold as a rifle, indicating, with a nudge, God, No God. God, No God. Sweet, appraising eye of the dog, blink once if god, twice if no god.
My mama may be ashamed of me, with all of my finery: carrying on, whooping it up till the early morn, lost and lorn, among the madding revelry! Sure, I can pass. Honey, I can pass. Particularly when I start to tip my glass. I'll be a sport, and have a go at that old song, singing unabashed, about 'Them city girls, with their ribbon bows, and their fancy sash...'
But, though I get so sad (could swear the night makes a motion to claim me, around that second verse), I reckon I've felt worse, and still held fast. But, later on, when I am alone, alone at last, then I take my god to task. I take my god to task.