调：F# minor•
Verse 1
F#m
A
F#m
Donald
A
F#m
A
F#m
E
A
Rose, now might I see you with your thin face and
F#m
E
A
buck -toothed smile and pain of rheumatism
E
A
and a long black heavy shoe for your bony left leg,
Newark on the running carpet
C#
F#m
A
F#m
where the parties were, and I sang
Spanish
boyless songs in a high squeaky voice,
hysterical.
The committee listening,
or who lived around the room,
collected the money.
Aunt
Honey,
Uncle
arm in his pocket,
Abraham
Lincoln
under the pillows of
Osborne
Terrace.
F#m
A
my tinkered and shamed first black curled hairs.
F#m
A
What were you thinking in secret of art then,
knowing me, a man already?
And
C#
F#m
A
I, an ignorant girl, a family silence on the thin pedestal
F#m
A
F#m
A
F#m
of my legs in the bathroom.
Emily
Bronte.
F#m
A
Oh, I see you walking still, a ghost on
Terrace, down the long
dark hall to the front
A
B
A
door, limping along with a pinched smile in what must have been the silken flower dress,
welcoming my father,
E
A
dancing on your crippled leg and clapping hands as
Demirite.
Marites are not a business.
F#m
A
C#
minute are out of print.
A
Uncle
Harry sews his last silk stocking.
F#m
dancing school.
C#
A
pale skull protruding under ashen skin, blue -veined
The war in
Spain has ended long ago, at
Gdim
A
Gdim
A
Gdim
Rose.
You
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