| Down by the old stone church
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| Where the joe-pye weed and the mallows grow
|
| Those petals bigger then my fist
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| Watch them bob and bow when the wind does blow
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| There grows a cypress tree
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| And in its trunk I carved you name
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| And right beside it I carved mine
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| They’ll give you the hometown hooray
|
| When you come home, baby
|
| Bronze your combat boots
|
| And set your bones in clay
|
| Write down every word you ever had to say
|
| No one wants to believe you died in vain
|
| The first spring that you were gone
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| The women who lived on the flat roof-tops
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| Had sherds sewn with quickly germinating seeds of greens
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| In all of their Sapphic celebrations
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| They held fires and dances, chanted your name
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| Tied yellow ribbons round the trunks of trees in town
|
| They’ll give you the hometown hooray
|
| When you come home, baby
|
| Bronze your combat boots
|
| And set your bones in clay
|
| Write down every word you ever had to say
|
| With Homeric undertones and half the length
|
| But the skies held a collusion of their own
|
| And on the sunniest day there ever was
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| You died at the tusk of a bayonet
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| And Aphrodite found your body
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| Sprinkled nectar in your wounds
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| And you blood dripped red anemones
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| That shimmered just like precious stones
|
| And they floated down the riverbank
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| To the tributary that now shares your name
|
| And the rapids from then on ran red
|
| They run red to this day
|
| They’ll give you the hometown hooray
|
| When you come home, baby
|
| Oh bronze your combat boots
|
| And set your bones in clay
|
| Write down every word you ever had to say
|
| With Homeric undertones and half the length
|
| We used to walk past the blue schoolhouse
|
| We wore our love like it was a crown
|
| And our skin was a map we knew by heart
|
| We never once got lost
|
| We never once got lost
|
| No one wants to believe you died in vain
|
| The Sapphic women who love you so
|
| Still cry every spring when the fennel goes
|
| And the wheat and the barley and the hardy rye
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| Wither and go to seed
|
| I walk down to the old stone church
|
| Where the joe-pye weed and the mallows grow
|
| Those petals droop now heavy with rain
|
| Watch them bob and bow when the wind does blow
|
| There, my favorite cypress tree
|
| As tall as the steeples I can see
|
| They’ve tied a yellow-ribbon 'round its trunk
|
| That covers your name where I carved it twice
|
| I rip that ribbon off the tree
|
| Burn it down by the river that now shares your name
|
| Place the ash where the water ravenously licks the riverbank
|
| We used to walk past the blue schoolhouse
|
| We wore our love like it was a crown
|
| And our skin was a map I knew by heart
|
| We never once got lost
|
| We never once got lost
|
| No one wants to believe you died in vain |