| It was backstage in Moscow late one night
|
| We shared a cigarette, a kiss goodbye
|
| Her name was Cayenne, so young and soft
|
| Her hands trembled badly, her eyes trailed off
|
| To bottles and objects around the room
|
| My backup guitar, a tray of food
|
| We didn’t have very much to say
|
| She said that she’d come from some other place
|
| A town called Troyskirt, maybe Troysworth
|
| I was pretty distracted packing my stuff
|
| But I did make a point to ask her to stay
|
| But she said she had friends that she had to go see
|
| Later that summer I picked up my mail
|
| She sent me a letter with a touching detail
|
| «I used up my minutes calling hotels
|
| To find you that night but to no avail»
|
| «I know it’s pathetic,"she continued to write,
|
| «But that was the greatest night of my life.» |