singer, songwriter, rock 'n' roller
She walks down Grant Street with a smile in her hand
She looks like she known where she stands.
She says, "A l'heure, mon cher, j'ai besoin de partir."
And waits to strike a deal with her man.
You could give her gold and diamond rings,
At her feet your heart could be laid.
She'd say her goodbyes with her telegram eyes
And leave with her long French braid.
Now the sultan's sons and the professional guns
Have worshipped her from afar,
She smiles a dreamy Botticelli smile
But her heart is pure Belle Starr.
She's got a scar the size of an ill-timed lie
Few are privileged to see,
She's got emerald glass that shines when she laughs,
She's got cuts on both of her knees.
And she looks out a dusty window pane
Holding a letter from you,
Reading in the avenue's empty light,
"Merry Christmas -- the wings are for you."