Song 44

Iíve written for my true love songs forty three

I wrote them on a banjo upon my bended knee

but I could not play my instrument so they arrested me

for scratching on that tightened skin my own filigree


my lady practiced all her arts with wit style and grace

a mask of sterling chain mail she wore upon her face

and underneath the tiny links time did níer embrace

her startled skin, like porcelain, my discomfort to disgrace


now walking in the greenwood, rose thorn and daffodil

youíd find us then and now and forever more ye will

but think ye not this is a song to tell ye of a kill

yet murder ballad tis and a kind of murder will


her hair was mainly longish, black and yellow mostly too

and its been said in old time books she looks a lot like you

Iíve even seen her smiling free and standing in a cue

ticket in hand, fast to a man, that looks just like you too


in my lonely prison cell I stare at walls of stone

I sit upon a bed of wire as if it were a throne

for Iím the king of all I see: rag, bowl and bone

and after midnight walks my queen, when all the guards have gone


sentenced here am I for my writing crime

though for the act of killing you Iíll never do no time

your body holds no blood nor wind this is a truth sublime

twas ever thus my reason says or at least says so my rhyme
Copyright Hills Snyder, 1997

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