Dedicated to the little Pup Brandy

Brandy, cute Brandy, you little darling are sweeter than sugar- candy

But entire day scream we; n run around you, saying, "Brandy, Brandy"

Little darling, you are more intoxicating, than that alcoholic drink, Brandy

Freyu n Zoish are eagerly awaiting n even searching for you, a dandy

Your Mum, Shez says you eat almost anything n everything except a "kakri"

That's why Brandu, she says, "you are perhaps not a doggie, you are a "bakri"

The moment says Phil, "Brandy I love you", wag you excitedly, your tail;

Ma loves you too little one; it is "Brandy Brandy" all day with love we wail

Armin Dutia Motashaw

The sailors say, "Brandy, you're a fine girl" (you're a fine girl)
"What a good wife you would be" (such a fine girl)
"But my life, my lover, my lady is the sea"

Yeah, Brandy used to watch his eyes
When he told his sailor stories
She could feel the ocean fall and rise
She saw its ragin' glory
But he had always told the truth, Lord, he was an honest man
And Brandy does her best to understand

At night when the bars close down
Brandy walks through a silent town
And loves a man who's not around
She still can hear him say

She hears him say, "Brandy, you're a fine girl" (you're a fine girl)
"What a good wife you would be" (such a fine girl)
"But my life, my lover, my lady is the sea"

Walking down main street, not worried about the rain, was John Carpenter.
Sure, he had on his hat and coat, but he had not remembered to grab his umbrella.
Luckily his sister had not been with him or else she would have had a fit. She was always talking about how he needed to bundle up more, he only got pneumonia twice  year, and seemed to always have a cold.
He didn't mind though. More often then not, a nice hot cup of coco, or brandy would clear his sinuses and he'd be fine.
Today he did not have a cold and today he was walking down mainstream, letting the rain fall gently upon his face and shoulders. He passed the bar he so often frequented in his younger years, and saw a familiar face across the not so busy main street. He stopped then, rather suddenly, and slumped agaisnt the wall.
My, it had been years since he had seen her. Years since he had talked to her. Looking across the street, through light traffic and light rains he remembered the other times he had looked upon her face.
He remembered the last time he had done so while seeing her. They had woken up in bed, him before her as was usual. They had woken up to kisses and squeezes and the smell of cigarettes and brandy and parchment.
Looking across the street he remembered everything about her, The Girl With Flowers In Her Hair.
He remembered the way she squeezed him tight, tighter than any other girl.
He remembered the way she laughed after they kissed
and he remembered how it had ended.
A shameful night in March, two years ago.
Drunkingly, he laid his hand upon her. Not in the nice way, but in the way his step father used to unto him. He did it because she would not go to the store to pick up more brandy.
That is why he hit her.
It was not the first time, though.
The first time he had been drunk as well and it had been because she talked back to him, the way he would to his step father. Now, you must understand, she gave him a second chance. She swore that if he were to every lay a hand on her ever again she would be gone. He swore to her that he would never again do so. He would lay off the brandy and he would be the man he should be. The man his real father was, before he died. He would be a husband and a lover and a healer and a man. He promised these things.
Then, two months later, he hit her again.
This was the last time.
She followed through on her promise and he did not see her until that moment, right then, as he looked across the street. He thought he should go over to her and say hello.
He though maybe he should cry at her knees, God knows he wanted to.
He thought he should beg for her back.
No, he had not gotten off the brandy, but that's only because she left.
He would though.
Oh God, he would.
Just as John Carpenter had worked up enough courage to cross the street and talk to Mary Stein, The Girl With Flowers In Her Hair, a man emerged from the building and grasped her arm. And she huddled close to him and looked up at him in a trusting, loving way. The way she used to him. Not the way John's mother did his stepfather. Not the way Mary did the last time she looked at him.
The strode, Mary and the Man,
arm in arm up the sidewalk.
Into a taxi, that sped away, up the street and away from John.
Oh God, how he would quit the brandy.