BEESWING
APB Written by Richard Thompson

D               G                D
  I was nineteen when I came to town.
            D                G               D
  They called it the summer of love.
     D                          G          D
  They were burning babies, burning flags,
           A                           G
  The hawks against the doves.
  D           G               D
  I took a job in the steamie
   D              G              D
  Down on Cauldrum Street,
    D                G                D
  And I fell in love with a laundry girl
                   A                     G
  Who was working next to me.    

                      Bm              A           D
  Oh, she was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing,
        Bm                    A                              G
  So fine a breath of wind might blow her away.
                   Bm                 A           D
  She was a lost child. Oh, she was running wild.
                       Bm                        A                        G
  She said, "As long as there's no price on love, I'll stay.
                  Em       F#m        G      A     D
  And you wouldn't want me any other way.”

Brown hair zigzag around her face and a look of half-surprise,
Like a fox caught in the headlights, there was animal in her eyes.
She said, "Young man, oh, can't you see, I'm not the factory kind.
If you don't take me out of here, I'll surely lose my mind.”

We busked around the market towns and picked fruit down in Kent,
And we could tinker lamps and pots and knives wherever we went.
And I said that we might settle down, get a few acres dug,
Fire burning in the hearth and babies on the rug.
She said, "Oh, man, you foolish man, it surely sounds like hell.
You might be lord of half the world, you'll not own me as well.”

We was camping down the Gower one time. The work was pretty good.
She thought we shouldn't wait for the frost and I thought maybe we should.
We was drinking more in those days and tempers reached a pitch,
And like a fool I let her run with the rambling itch.

Oh, the last I heard, she's sleeping rough, back on the Derby beat,
White Horse in her hip pocket, and a wolfhound at her feet.
And they say she even married once, a man named Romany Brown,
But even a gypsy caravan was too much settling down.
And they say her flower is faded now, hard weather and hard booze,
But maybe that's just the price you pay for the chains you refuse.

Oh, she was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing,
And I miss her more than ever words could say.
If I could just taste all of her wildness now,
If I could hold her in my arms today,
Well, I wouldn't want her any other way.

You're welcome,
Owl.