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| Beth Amsel ©1999 Good Egg Music |
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I came up on a Greyhound from the southland past peach pit plantation plains and I can still taste that sweetness in my mouth don't think I'll be eating peaches again Brought up on religion on a river sandbar schooling is something else and I can still smell that muddied water cause it's in my hair and in my skin and in my clothes When I put my feet down in the station my soles stuck solid to the tile and my eyes were tearing from the fumes in the Port but there's nothing much left that makes me cry But in the light on the evening the sidewalks are teeming with the sound of the venders, runners, I-can't-sleepers, I can't sleep can't sleep I took my place among the ragged brigadiers all the leather bound bar boys know my name and the blue midnight masses milling in the street sing sweeter than all the Sundays I've ever known At night when the black khol bleeds dark bands beneath our eyes and we watch our youth wash down the sink Saint Mark and Patrick watch from lamp posts up above and their tears fill the gutters from which we drink But in the light on the evening the sidewalks are teeming with the sound of the venders, runners, I-can't-sleepers And the cat calls keep calling the night girls are stalling to the sack boys wearing blankets in the heat blankets in the heat The phantom players place their bets down on the box but the monty cards are always the same the tourists gather round thinking they've got it made don't no one know that no one wins that game But sometimes when the pavement steams and my skin could blister to the touch I can still see wisteria curling in the green and I tell myself I really donít miss it much But in the light on the evening the sidewalks are teeming with the sound of the venders, runners, I-can't-sleepers And the cat calls keep calling the night girls are stalling to the sack boys wearing blankets in the heat Where all the heroes are black clad and the smoke circled jet lagged park their limos just inches from our feet. Where all the sidewalks are ending, the bowery's dead ending in the footprints of Saint Mark in the Square Saint Mark is walking in the Square barefoot in the square And I'm not leaving. |
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