The Bucket List
McGrath Hawaiian Guitar
by Deborah Grabien
At the edge of a couple of vodka and limes
I am spinning out reasons, and offering rhymes.
And the alleys that run from the stage to the door
Are built for the dead men - and lit for the poor.
Brown-eyes, oh brown eyes, where the hell did you go?
Where the hell have you gone? why the hell don't I know?
And I would like the answer to a question or two:
How the hell can I possibly go on without you?
In the back room, the boys crack a bottle and sing
And the Everclear flows down while the telephone rings
And it isn't my problem and it isn't my cue
But the whole conversation is centered on you.
Such as: brown-eyes, oh brown-eyes, that mad little man
With the smile that bewitched and the lopsided hands
And they don't like to ask me, but they do want to know:
Where the hell has he gone? Where the hell did he go?
I just don't know.
And the gallery's haunted, appeasing your shade
The rafters still shaking with the games that got played
We both tried to secure it, we both tried to please
But the dust is still falling on the black and white keys
And brown-eyes, oh brown-eyes I still can't believe
That you'd pick up your axe, that you'd pack up and leave
And you've just got to tell me, for my own peace of mind:
Why you'd put out the light, why you'd leave me behind
And the ghost in my room is the ghost in my eyes
And they say that a rose without water eventually dies
(eventually - supposedly)
And the renaissance woman, the study in blue
Is the woman whose dreams were all centered on you
And brown-eyes, I'd give anything that I own
Just to taste your tequila slip soft through the phone
But alone with my anger, I'll tie one more on
And pretend I'm alive
When I know that you're gone.
Lyric copyright © 1976, Deborah Grabien; all rights reserved.