Martina

Is this really the place, to ask the reason why, my love is ruined, the haze of loss and show, beats out lonely time, nowhere else to go, soaked on the Spanish main, desolate in my cry, I never try to calculate, what I need to know, no longer beat the sky, wooden box or one-way crow, when I jump the rail, boxcar irons safe to climb, forget the spikes of jail, my lips won’t go, near this sweetheart’s tie, or witness gentle sorrow, no easy way to fake, what hurts me deep inside, take it to my grave, eyes open wide.