White is his hair except where his head is bare,
And white is his beard and his moustache,
And white are the lies he tells with smiling eyes,
As my heart he so gently touches.
Oh, first he did see me in Washington, D.C.,
When people on the Mall were sunning,
I asked him to my room, to play a loving tune,
And perhaps to do some fancy strumming.
He followed me there, then much to my despair,
His hands held only his old Martin,
Three hours passed in song, while my aching heart did long,
And still it did long at our parting.
Oh, are you so naieve? Or do you just believe,
It was only a little harmless flirting?
Am I ugly? Are you gay? Have your fires gone away?
Or do you like to leave a poor girl hurting?
This is about a particular individual. Smithsonian Folk Festival, 1998.