I posted this at my old blog, and I wasn’t planning on allowing it to see the light of day again, but I received a request for a repost, so here it goes.
It’s cheesy, and it makes me feel like Elizabeth Shue in Adventures in Babysitting, except without the fake applause from a crowd that should have wielded tomatoes.
Ghosts of Blues Past, pray forgive me.
People that are sick of the “g” being dropped from the end of words, especially by politicians, I beg your pardon. I wrote this song a long time before the presidential campaign sank its teeth into proper grammar.
There ain’t no deeper kinda hurtin’
Than the one a roamin’ man gives
Pants and shoes, ties and shirt in
A little bag that says he leaves
Can’t you hear me baby, booming ‘cross the floor?
Can’t you feel my heart, a thunder you can’t ignore?
Can’t you hear my weeping past the kitchen door?
‘Cause inside it feels like I won’t see you no more
The dollhouse in the bedroom lonely
The dollhouse in the backyard full
I see you ‘cross a few feet only
Distance cackling in a way called cruel
Why you lean and smile baby, rubbing salt on the wound?
Why you tell me you’re there just one summer afternoon?
Why you giggle and boss me around, tellin’ me to come over?
When gone is gone, be it worlds or backyard I must cover
‘Cause you belong on me, in me, with me
And you are mistaken if you think this is a plea
Come I will, and grab by hand my roamin’ man
My dollhouse blues gone red with the fire you fan
Bessie Smith – Empty Bed Blues