Blood flows back and back and
back and back,
Like a river from a secret
source.
I feel it wild in me; I pitched
my camp
At the fork where knowledge
meets remorse.
Women sing in me that song
from the ancient choir,
I just open my mouth and what
comes out gives me chills.
I got my song from a secret
place,
I got my face from Billy from
the hills.
A 40-inch barrel on that shotgun,
Steel traps and a cane pack
on his back.
Eighteen years old, surrounded
by the Ozarks,
Ain't one little bit of that
boy that's slack.
If you're lookin' for a helpin'
hand,
He'll give you one, you know
he will.
If you're lookin' for trouble,
huh-uh, turn around,
You don't wanna mess with
Billy from the hills.
Some folks dance cool, all
angles and swaying hips,
Sensual as all get out and
in.
Me, I'm a hick, and I dance
like one,
I just kinda jump around and
grin.
I know a guy, he doesn't dance
too much,
But when he does, he gives
everybody a thrill
You might run away or suck
it up and stay,
When he dances, Billy from
the hills.
Ah, dance, Bill.
There's a lantern lit on a
Missouri night,
A woman writing poems by stove.
She knows the fox's whereabouts
by knoll, by gulch, by yelp,
As he runs at night through
her mother love.
Her memory to me is like watercress
from a spring-fed stream,
Fresh and aching as a mockingbird's
trill.
She lives in me; I try to
look until
I can see for her and her
boy, Billy from the hills.
It's a drifting time, people
fascinated with screens,
No idea what's on the other
side.
We stare at doom like an uptight
groom,
And live our lives like a
drunken bride.
Tonight I feel somethin' on
the wind,
Or deep inside where we have
to die or kill.
Something I know I didn't
know I knew,
I learned from Billy from
the hills.
Billy from the hills.
Billy from the hills.
Copyright © 1994 Brown-Feldman Publishing
Marco Giunco |
Work | Basket | Music | Words |