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Beeswing

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richard thompson
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2017-01-01

  Beeswing-Richard Thompson

  I was nineteen when I came to town, they called it the Summer of Love

  They were burning babies, burning flags. The hawks against the doves

  I took a job in the steamie down on Cauldrum Street

  And I fell in love with a laundry girl who was working next to me

  Oh she was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing

  So fine a breath of wind might blow her away

  She was a lost child, oh she was running wild

  She said "As long as there's no price on love, I'll stay.

  And you wouldn't want me any other way"

  Brown hair zig-zag around her face and a look of half-surprise

  Like a fox caught in the headlights, there was animal in her eyes

  She said "Young man, oh can't you see I'm not the factory kind

  If you don't take me out of here I'll surely lose my mind"

  Oh she was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing

  So fine that I might crush her where she lay

  She was a lost child, she was running wild

  She said "As long as there's no price on love, I'll stay.

  And you wouldn't want me any other way"

  We busked around the market towns and picked fruit down in Kent

  And we could tinker lamps and pots and knives wherever we went

  And I said that we might settle down, get a few acres dug

  Fire burning in the hearth and babies on the rug

  She said "Oh man, you foolish man, it surely sounds like hell.

  You might be lord of half the world, you'll not own me as well"

  Oh she was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing

  So fine a breath of wind might blow her away

  She was a lost child, oh she was running wild

  She said "As long as there's no price on love, I'll stay.

  And you wouldn't want me any other way"

  We was camping down the Gower one time, the work was pretty good

  She thought we shouldn't wait for the frost and I thought maybe we should

  We was drinking more in those days and tempers reached a pitch

  And like a fool I let her run with the rambling itch

  Oh the last I heard she's sleeping rough back on the Derby beat

  White Horse in her hip pocket and a wolfhound at her feet

  And they say she even married once, a man named Romany Brown

  But even a gypsy caravan was too much settling down

  And they say her flower is faded now, hard weather and hard booze

  But maybe that's just the price you pay for the chains you refuse

  Oh she was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing

  And I miss her more than ever words could say

  If I could just taste all of her wildness now

  If I could hold her in my arms today

  Well I wouldn't want her any other way

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