Kileigh

A wooden girl all tied with wire–a marionette, and a trampoline.
She drew a bird on the back of her ankle and let out the dogs to run in the field.

Kileigh baby’s got her own–she forgot to cross herself.
She’ll pick up her guitar and kiss you on the mouth and leave you tangled–doubled over–on the shelf.

Black-eyed girl all tied with wire–a pair of red shoes, and a fairy tale.
She used to breeze horses, when Charlie still knew her, and read aloud poems by Kipling and Byron:
“[This is a gland at that back of the jaw,/ And an answering lump by the collar-bone.]”
And it was a strange fruit she had fed her–an unholy song, plucked out on guitar.

Kileigh baby’s got her own–she forgot to cross herself.
She’ll pick up her guitar and kiss you on the mouth and leave you tangled, doubled over, on the shelf.

A close-cropped girl all tied with wire found a man by the track and a bird in the eves.
Snow-white, sky-blue, lemon-yellow. Takes her spills with a cigarette.
Because when you fall–when you fall from the saddle–it’s God’s earth that’ll break your back.
Oh no, now I’ll take a gun over an angel, and an unholy girl over fear of–fear of–fear of–

Kileigh baby’s got her own–she forgot to cross herself.
She’ll pick up her guitar and kiss you on the mouth–leave you tangled, doubled over, on the shelf.
Kileigh baby’s got her own–green eyes, black-hair, with a pretty mouth, yeah–
Kileigh baby’s got her own–

So let her sing. Let her sing.
Song that I wrote down, day after Christmas, were you feeling Christian when you said “hello”?