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Wild Strawberries Grace May I Call You Beatrice Just a little thought in the head of the one With the sunburnt cheeks and the eyes to the ground Making earwaxed tongue-tied gutter sounds Thinking of the lost rib, dialing the indelible Thinking the unthinkable-no one's home And the eyes say I don't believe we've met I don't believe you've had the privilege I don't believe we've met When the wind blows cold And the eyes of the child grow old When the erratic conga rises and falls Above the faithful metronome You can take me back to the gravestone See her strain from the weight of the globe Spinning around his assumptions-barefoot and tight-lipped He in his favourite chair blowing his world around First she's Beatrice, then she's a pumpkin Then she's a faded leaf in a book on his pantry shelf The head sees the hand play with the ring in the pocket And the head knows the hand knows the ring is as round As the tear-soaked shoulder in a room in another town The ring is getting heavy and so is the crown Which she drags to the chair feebly to keep the swelling down When the bird in the bush is worth two in the hand And the empty cage holds the empty man The bird keeps flying from the Orgoglian rising And the phone keeps ringing and the phone keeps ringing And the ring keeps slipping and the phone And the phone keeps on ringing And he's thinking about the one who got away |
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