|
|
Wade
Newman
reads
Song for Emily D.
in Real Audio
format.
|
 |
I wish I was born in 1830
When Emily D. was christened in Amherst;
And being born the same year as she,
Neither of us would get older first
Or be separated by a century.
I'd grow up passing her white picket fence
Which later I'd paint to please her father;
And Mr. D., being a man of substance,
Would pay me with pies baked by his daughter
Who, of course, was sweeter than any dessert.
So when the horses left their dung on the street,
I'd make damn sure it was covered with dirt
Before Emily, through a window, peeked
And, not far from her flowers, saw piles of turds.
For Emily had an eye for beauty,
And another for a man whose innermost
Passion could drive him, like me, to drop to his knees
And declare his love for a living ghost
Who wore no gold around her finger,
Though her dress was whiter than a wedding gown;
Whose brown eyes, if they saw you passing, lingered
Like moonlight on the common ground.
But Emily would let a hornet sting her
Before a gentleman or street-sweeper did.
I wouldn't mind that she'd marry no one,
Or if all Amherst considered her frigid.
I know the feeling of being abandoned
And wish it on nobody, least of all
Emily D., born in 1830,
Whom I, each day, would have given a catcall.
Perhaps she'd have written a poem for me
Before our chance became a graveyard wall.
|
|
|
