I’ve 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 n’er embrace

her startled skin, like porcelain, my discomfort to disgrace

now walking in the greenwood, rose thorn and daffodil

you’d 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

I’ve 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 I’m 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 I’ll never do no time

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