With your sheets like metal
and your belt like lace,
And your deck of cards missing
the jack and the ace,
And your basement clothes
and your hollow face,
Who among them can think he
could outguess you?
With your silhouette when
the sunlight dims
Into your eyes where the moonlight
swims,
And your match-book songs
and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them would try to
impress you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet
says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian
drums,
Should I leave them by your
gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should
I wait?
The kings of Tyrus with their
convict list
Are waiting in line for their
geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would
happen like this,
But who among them really
wants just to kiss you?
With your childhood flames
on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and
your mother's drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and
your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think
could resist you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet
says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian
drums,
Should I leave them by your
gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should
I wait?
Oh, the farmers and the businessmen,
they all did decide
To show you the dead angels
that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you
to sympathize with their side?
Oh, how could they ever mistake
you?
They wished you'd accepted
the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet
and the phony false alarm,
And with the child of a hoodlum
wrapped up in your arms,
How could they ever, ever
persuade you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet
says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian
drums,
Should I leave them by your
gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should
I wait?
With your sheet-metal memory
of Cannery Row,
And your magazine-husband
who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which
you just can't help but show,
Who among them do you think
would employ you?
Now you stand with your thief,
you're on his parole
With your holy medallion which
your fingertips fold,
And your saintlike face and
your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among them do you
think could destroy you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet
says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian
drums,
Should I leave them by your
gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should
I wait?
Marco Giunco |
Work | Basket | Music | Words |