Well it takes me awhile but I do get things done.


Rosa May    Dave Stamey

Her na(G)me was Rosa May, She arri(Bm)ved one winters day
To pl(C)y her trade in the to(D)wn of Bo(G)die,
And her che(G)cks were blazing red from the chi(Bm)lly winds she said,
But the lin(C)es around her mo(D)uth were even col(G)der.

Down on Maiden Lane Like the others, just the same,
She'd lay down for the miner's dollar.
And her hands were course and plain, like a song without refrain,
But there was always lace upon her collar.

When the mi(D)ners gathered around to thr(C)ow their money do(G)wn
And tou(C)ch the goods that she was sel(D)ling.
And she smel(D)led of smoke and sweat and the whis(C)key on her bre(G)ath
You alw(C)ays would found her wil(D)ling and alw(C)ays you fou(D)nd her wil(G)ling.

She was a girl no longer young. When each nights work was done
She found the light of a bitter morning
And in the stove she built a fire, and though the smoke went higher
She never felt their warming

To the Opium dens she'd go On King Street through the snow,
To take the pipe that would soothe and blind her.
And she spent the endless days in a yellow smoky haze,
Till the night would come and men would find her.

Well the bo(D)om it came and went and a(C)ll the money spe(G)nt
Still she sta(C)yed in the town of Bo(D)die
And the wi(D)nd it howled in shrieks through the em(C)pty lonely stre(G)ets,
and the whis(C)pers of the sa(D)ge was like poetry,
it whisp(C)ered through the sa(D)ge like poe(G)try

They found her a winter's dawn, the smoke from her fire gone
And her eyes were open to the endless mystery.
And they buried her with out prayer on the slope just over there
And they drifted on and where lost to history

Well the bo(D)om it came and went and a(C)ll the money spe(G)nt
Still she sta(C)yed in the town of Bo(D)die
And the wi(D)nd it howled in shrieks through the em(C)pty lonely stre(G)ets,
and the whis(C)pers of the sa(D)ge was like poetry,
it whisp(C)ered through the sa(D)ge like poe(G)try

1st verse. ….........
There was always lace on her collar…the whispers of the sage was like poetry