You can call me crippled so long as you don’t try to kiss me,
And go ahead! kiss me under the Mulberry tree so long as
You wait ‘til dark.
I have nowhere to be ever since last spring when a bad hand
Lost me my savings, a sack full of mismatched-misshapen
Buttons and a postcard from Tulsa addressed to one “Marie with the limp~”
Romantic that I am, I held that it was meant for me,
That I could read between the lines,
And by golly! it was meant for me.
Why no, I don’t have a limp. I just don’t
Walk, is all. What I’m trying to get to is for
You to kiss me.
All my hands are bad—both of ‘em, I mean.
It’s like there’s rot in the Mulberry. It’s like Tulsa is a world
Away. And what’s in Tulsa that has not crippled me,
You can’t say without it being cockeyed. And what’s that mean
For Marie with the limp, and where do
I go from here?
Stay buttoned up is all I know,
Walk straight through,
And I can plant one on you upstairs.
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