in the light on a cold, night
With her hands in her coat and
She's barely twenty -three
and quietly looking at me
Under the tops of her eyes,
the conversation moved slow
Where was she going and where she'd been,
What kind of man had done her wrong,
I felt her backhand thrown in anger
What kind of man had done her wrong,
I heard a ship's bell in the distance
Stood just wondering for hours,
and thought of her hair dark as blackbirds
In the moon it shined so bright,
the angel's stallion started kicking
what kind of man had done her wrong
I felt her backhand thrown in anger
What kind of man had done her wrong?
Standing in a line, on a cold, cold night
With her hands in her coat,
Just barely 23, nearly looking at me
Under the tops of her eyes,
the conversation moves slow
