"bring another bottle," you tell me, leaning
against the bricks
hunched
in the rain -
your eyes, they glitter, out
your coattails are long, lavish, and filthy
and your hat
is pulled low
i can see the care in you
from time to time
i feel it.
"you ain't gonna leave me, nance?" you say,
and i hear the fear
the uncertainty,
and then i go to you.
filthy london, it's brought you down
and me down
with you.
the little boys, the old man, they have questions in their eyes
when they see me let you, lead me, away,
but they don't see
that under the grime of your crimes
and the filth of your sins,
there is a heart, black, patched, and wounded
but beating.
for this i love you.
your hands on me, my man
can be a thing frightening
a thing thrilling
when you beat me like a dog
when you kiss me like a lover.
your violence, my man, is a curse
because you would have better for me
if you could give it.
and your bitterness, my man, is deserved
for the low-life life
you've been given.
and i feel you,
how you whisper in the nighttime, "nance."
and i quiver, just to hear it
"nancy," you whisper, gruffly, after the alcohol's worn off, the ***
"i didn't mean none of it, nance. not a thing of it, eh?"
you whisper, roughly, bowing your head to my shoulder.
"you're a good girl
for not leavin' me, then.
and i ain't never deserved you
a day in my life."
and i pretend to sleep
to hear it.
you'll be the death of me, my man.
they tell me so,
and i know it's so.
but first
i will be the life of you.
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 5:29 PM UTC
"bring another bottle," you tell me, leaning
against the bricks
hunched
in the rain -
your eyes, they glitter, out
your coattails are long, lavish, and filthy
and your hat
is pulled low
i can see the care in you
from time to time
i feel it.
"you ain't gonna leave me, nance?" you say,
and i hear the fear
the uncertainty,
and then i go to you.
filthy london, it's brought you down
and me down
with you.
the little boys, the old man, they have questions in their eyes
when they see me let you, lead me, away,
but they don't see
that under the grime of your crimes
and the filth of your sins,
there is a heart, black, patched, and wounded
but beating.
for this i love you.
your hands on me, my man
can be a thing frightening
a thing thrilling
when you beat me like a dog
when you kiss me like a lover.
your violence, my man, is a curse
because you would have better for me
if you could give it.
and your bitterness, my man, is deserved
for the low-life life
you've been given.
and i feel you,
how you whisper in the nighttime, "nance."
and i quiver, just to hear it
"nancy," you whisper, gruffly, after the alcohol's worn off, the ***
"i didn't mean none of it, nance. not a thing of it, eh?"
you whisper, roughly, bowing your head to my shoulder.
"you're a good girl
for not leavin' me, then.
and i ain't never deserved you
a day in my life."
and i pretend to sleep
to hear it.
you'll be the death of me, my man.
they tell me so,
and i know it's so.
but first
i will be the life of you.
Inspired by Oliver Twist
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