A Song Of Molly Owen

To the tune of Molly Malone

On streets dull ‘n Bath-y
I did, at long last, meet
that girl I’d been texting
called Molly Owen.

Her hand she was wavin’
to me – I’d just sailed in
from Bristol and sheltered
a bus stop within.

A bus stop within! A bus stop within!
T’was where I was standing, with Molly wavin’.

A story I told her
’bout me at Victor’yer
Park wid me siblings,
in the nineteen-nineties.

I showed her the moorhens,
the ducks, and the pigeons,
as she tried to teach me
t’identify trees.

T’identify trees! T’identify trees!
She’s still tryna teach me the shapes of the leaves…

She lived up on Moorfield’s,
yet wished e’er she could feel
the eyes of the mountains,
their ancient gaze t’ward

a house – vined ‘n gabled – 
with land and a stable,
which her head-teacher mill’yuns
had helped her afford.

Had helped her afford! Had helped her afford!
This home by the peaks, ‘n not far from the shore.

To Stratford we travelled
and I did find statues
of Shakespeare to pose with,
which she did judge lame!

Well, when we go t’Dublin
I’ll do that same ‘lame’ thing
with Joyce and she’ll have to
take photos again!

Take photos again! Take photos again!
I’ll make her take hundreds of photos again!

Oh, on I could compose
this song of us, although
we’ve only been t’gether
since summer’s sunset.

A wealth of mind sharin’,
of walks, and of carin’,
with such time before us
which we shall fill yet.

Which we shall fill yet! Which we shall fill yet!
We’ll fill the time hence with too much to forget…

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