(D. Rodriguez) Comfort me, said she, With your conversation, With the cocktails And the candlelight In your eyes; It's funny how we hunger For some inspiration, And everything else that money just won't buy. Men have lied, Many good girls have gone astray, Just to hear the gypsy play one more lilting cowboy tune, And as the rivers run dry, And the mountains blow away, They sing of lovers and how they lay, Beneath this crazy frontier moon. I ain't no golden boy, I ain't no Grecian dancer, And I ain't no loudmouthed cowboy from the West, I'm not the kind of man with all the answers, But I surely know the songs that suit me best. But lately I've had something on my mind, It's growing stronger all the time, Calling out when I'm alone, But I'm a poet And I'm bound to walk the line, Between the real and the sublime, And give the muses back their own. It's a penny for your thoughts, It's a dollar for your kisses, Keep a running tab on the time, 'Cause what I've got the most of Is what she misses, The clock is hers, The hourglass is mine. But I'm her lover, Not a man bent on revenge, Hanging out here on the fringe, Of my native borderlands. Counting the days the sun shone golden across her head, Lying on the banks of the bayou's edge, Kicking up some Southeast Texas sand.
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Copy to Clipboard: (D. Rodriguez) Comfort me, said she, With your conversation, With the cocktails And the candlelight In your eyes; It's funny how we hunger For some inspiration, And everything else that money just won't buy. Men have lied, Many good girls have gone astray, Just to hear the gypsy play one more lilting cowboy tune, And as the rivers run dry, And the mountains blow away, They sing of lovers and how they lay, Beneath this crazy frontier moon. I ain't no golden boy, I ain't no Grecian dancer, And I ain't no loudmouthed cowboy from the West, I'm not the kind of man with all the answers, But I surely know the songs that suit me best. But lately I've had something on my mind, It's growing stronger all the time, Calling out when I'm alone, But I'm a poet And I'm bound to walk the line, Between the real and the sublime, And give the muses back their own. It's a penny for your thoughts, It's a dollar for your kisses, Keep a running tab on the time, 'Cause what I've got the most of Is what she misses, The clock is hers, The hourglass is mine. But I'm her lover, Not a man bent on revenge, Hanging out here on the fringe, Of my native borderlands. Counting the days the sun shone golden across her head, Lying on the banks of the bayou's edge, Kicking up some Southeast Texas sand.
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