Dollhouse Blues

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.

To be sung while simultaneously laughing and crying. Guitar or blindness are not prerequisites.
To be sung while simultaneously laughing and crying. Guitar or blindness are not prerequisites.

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

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