and this wouldn't be complete
without a nod to my marie
while i'm crawling 'cross the rooftop
she's back down on the street
hey, there goes marie

first she swore she'd paint a picture
and she'd send it soon to me
what i got, a two page letter
written incoherently
ain't that just like marie?

writes, "the tree tops here in london
could shade the stars hustlin' l.a.
and the next stop is savannah"
but she ain't been no place
nor is she on the way

still her cigarettes are timeless
like golden a.m. radio
and the smoke behind her eyelids
like some washed-out picture
she gave up long ago

'cause there's nothing quite so dated
as the time marie was sure
"man, there's nothing like movies"
now she just looks bored
sighs, "could there be nothing more?"

than this blue-lit room, real quiet
where marie gets up to go
with something in her pocket
moving awful slow
for the poets and their prose

crawls out the bedroom window
waits out on the fire escape
oh, marie, i'm sure i told you
they'll give back what they take
marie slips away

now there's static talkin' to me
and i'm talkin' to myself
oh, and i'd tell marie what's been told me
but she's long gone someplace else
someplace she'll tell

but i'd wait out in the darkness
and i'd wait 'till it got cold
what she left with in her clenched fist
i'd still like to know
marie, what's there to hold?