Last night or the night before that,
|
I won¢¥t say which night
|
A seaman friend of mine,
|
I¢¥ll not say which seaman,
|
Walked up to a big old building,
|
I won¢¥t say which building,
|
And would not have walked up the stairs,
|
not to say which stairs,
|
If there had not been two girls,
|
leaving out the names of those two girls.
|
|
I recall a door, a big long room,
|
I¢¥ll not tell which room,
|
I remember a big blue rug,
|
but I can¢¥t say which rug,
|
A girl took down a book of poems,
|
not to say which book of poems
|
And as she read I laid my head,
|
and I can¢¥t tell which head,
|
Down in her lap, and I can mention which lap
|
|
My seaman buddy and girl moved off
|
after a couple of pages and there I was,
|
All night long, laying and listening
|
and forgetting the poems.
|
And as well as I could recall,
|
or my seaman could recollect,
|
My girl had told us that she was a niece
|
of Walt Whitman, but not which niece,
|
And it takes a night and a girl
|
and a book of this kind
|
A long long time to find its way back
|
|
-----------------
|
Walt Whitman¢¥s Niece
|
| Woody Guthrie |
