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A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,

WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC




I THINK ABOUT HER STILL

One day she came into the room
For to hear me sing a song.
So modest were the clothes she wore,
Her hair tied back and long.
And yet I scarcely noticed her
Come a-walking through the door.
True love is so hard to find
I wasnít looking any more,
For he who seeks no pleasure,
So shall he find no pain.
Iíve had both in full measure,
Iíll know them both again,
Yes I will.
I think about her still.

The wintertime was coming on
And we walked around outdoors,
Till we came unto a pond
And its pine tree studded shore.
Cascading moonlight on the water
Reflected down below.
So cold it must have been that night,
But little did we know.
In a long long while we both arose
And we held each other tight.
We walked the long path through the woods
To her room to spend the night
In from the chill.
I think about her still.

And then a boy knocked on the door.
She said: ďPlease, canít it wait?
Come back in the morning,
The hour is getting late.Ē
He said ďno,Ē she let him in,
He gave me thirty bucks;
Iíd lost it all the day before
And I couldnít believe my luck!
And now it was returned to me
With a friendly honest smile.
I took her out to dinner,
I courted her in style
And ate my fill.
I think about her still.

She said sheís an insomniac
As writers mostly are;
While others all are sleeping
Sheís out there counting stars.
We gazed into each otherís eyes
And passed around a pipe.
I said I have a weakness
For the sensitive artist type,
And for blonde-haired women
With regal, mystic eyes,
And whatever length of time it lasts
Is surely worth the try,
Come what will.
I think about her still.

Sheís a classic Grecian statue
Thatís lately come to life;
An elusive, mythic image,
Very likely not a wife;
A classy cultured lady,
A woman of the world,
Yet hesitant and searching,
An uncertain little girl,
And she will drift from man to man
Before her life is done.
I crossed her path by fate, by chance,
Iím grateful I was one
Of those who will.
I think about her still.

But sheís a hungry artist
And she loves the city life.
I havenít much to offer her,
Sheíll never be my wife.
Iím just a guitar player,
I ramble and I roam,
Wherever I can lay my head,
Thatís where I call my home;
For I was born to wander
And to tramp from town to town.
The boys all want to ramble,
The girls want to settle down,
They always will.
I think about her still.

Sometimes I have to wonder
Why Iím always on the move.
I know that Iím successful,
I have nothing left to prove.
All I must live up to
Are standards of my own,
But when I walk upon that stage
Iím bared right to the bone,
And still there is an emptiness
Without a constant home,
Without a loving woman
To call each otherís own,
Iím not fulfilled.
I think about her still.

Spofford, New Hampshire, 1976



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