Beeswing, organized
This is to blame. She was: Working next to me A rare thing Fine as: a bee’s wing so fine a breath of air might blow her away A lost child Running wild Sleeping rough back on the Derby beat Even married once, to a man named Romany Brown I was: Nineteen when I came to town In love with a laundry girl We: Busked around the market square Picked fruit down in Kent Could tinker lamps and pots and knives wherever we went Was camping down the Gower Was drinking more in those days ...