grey rain is sad

Standard


ladies are stopping the trains by
    lifting up their voices as high
        as ever would they their skirts

we begged to talk ’em out of it though, sittin
on the fence lined up

me and the boys would whistle
and say show us your lace hon

it would grey-rain a lot.

and we grew dry at the lips
    died
        oldly

    when
whoever could peddle
fastest
through the woods
was gonna win




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