October 20, 2011 § Leave a comment

Last I heard she’s sleeping rough
Back on the Derby beat
Bottle of White Horse in her pocket
A wolfhound at her feet

They say she got married once, to a man named Romany Brown
But even a gypsy caravan was too much settling down
They say her rose is faded now, hard weather and hard booze
Maybe that’s the price you pay for the chains that 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
I wouldn’t want her any other way

Richard Thompson – ‘Beeswing’

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