Glade am I
I am fain the Glade of Elkhorn
where three streams meet in churning;
and Gypsies dance from dusk ‘till morn
to jangles and swirling and hearts a pounding.
Why do you stomp ‘bout as you please
and steal my fruit just ripening;
and break the fingers from my trees
to burn my soul and set my hair a blazing?
I could rain and drown yer children
and tumble boulders on those carts;
and rip those bright dresses flaylin’,
to snap yer bow and stay yer wand’rin’ hearts.
then you’d pile concrete ‘pon my head
and pave black roads across my chest;
and dam my blood ‘til green was dead,
with a honk and screech to destroy my rest.
So dance my friend with raven hair
and spill wine on my fair clover;
and catch the maid ‘neath laughing fern
that Gypsies will find this Glade forever.