Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Baby Don’t Cry, Let Lucinda Pick Up
Where you left off

Baby don’t cry, let Lucinda pick up where you let off, let her sing the blues
Let her croon about losing her man, getting stoned after drinking too much

It’s another Saturday night; outside they’re walking up and down Bedford
Some kitchen cupboard runway show out in Bushwick, watch them stray

Sachet, hook a hand around a girl, hands in pocket, big leather boots and all
Others are looking for love, inside lavender bars, they hang, drinking lime

A clock on the wall tells the time, time to leave when drunk, time for loving
Unshaven boys, bearded and slackened, rip stories about modern dead beats

A hundred Ginsbergs with one Marilyn Monroe, sitting by the bar waiting
Charm away stranger, let love live inside that bottle, pour away, make it

Summon the green ghosts of an Irish pub; waste away the whiskey in a cup
Lying on the sofa I hear Lucinda, this sour wine of a Saturday night come all

Rain on me again your white water, eyes that have soaked up soap scum
I’d wash dirty dishes but I’m numb, I could feel water dripping from above

Is it Sangria from the Mexicano, he’s done his share of banging pots tonight
It’s been a while since, he has stopped yelling; his bed has stopped creaking

So I’ll wait on your tacos and beans; make like nothing had ever happened
In this dark room, I walk a country mile; in circles we hurt each other so

We don’t talk, the only voice that separates us is Lucinda’s, let her sing
Let her be the reason why we’ll quit worrying, sit down make a meal of this

I can’t see your face from here, all I hear is the clanking; I’ll sit beside you
Look upon your face; see the mountain stream of tears wash down like fear

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