Barbara Allen's Grave

And here's one just for Halloween; more or less a song about the infamous Resurrection Mary, along with One-Armed Charlie (who was a well-known Bughouse Square speaker, contrasted here with the guy in Charlie on the MTA), and Barbara Allen of Childe Ballad fame (who died of grief after a guy [william or sir john green or any number of names from the dozens of versions] died of love for her, then had a rose grow from her grave to wrap around the briar that grew from the guy's grave). In some versions the plants are reversed, but having a rose from her grave, not his, works better for the song. A very good version of the ballad itself is on Bob Dylan at the Gaslight, which is now available at your local Starbucks (or in versions with twice as many tracks on bootleg), and my favorite twist on it is "The Briar and the Rose" on Tom Waits' "The Black Rider" album. Anyway, without further intro:

BARBARA ALLEN'S GRAVE

I picked the rose from Barbara Allen’s grave
And carefully wrapped it up tight
They told me you’d like it if I gave it to you
Under a moonless night
I cut a dashing figure
As I stepped from the train into town
Ignoring the voices in the back of my head
That said I should have been home by now
I picked the rose
I picked the rose
I picked the rose
From Barbara Allen’s grave

One Armed charlie just came from the Clark
And he stands on the benches to speak
To the assembled fanatics who stare politely
And the pidgeons who walk over his feet
As he talks about being stuck under Boston
Twelve years ago on the train
And glances my way, because I was there with him
He was the one who told me your name
I picked the rose I picked the rose
I picked the rose
From Barbara Allen’s grave

Mr. Sherringford is a very clean man
Except for his yellow teeth you know
If you ever saw them beneath his Clark Gable moustache
You might even say that they glowed
I know that he’ll give me the details I need
But I think that it’s going to be hard
No one leaves this diner at this time of night
Without beating Mr. Sherringford at cards
I picked the rose I picked the rose
I picked the rose
From Barbara Allen’s grave

I dream at night of violins And dance halls long since closed
You run out the back door wearing A brown jacket over your clothes
Turning to look at me just for a second Every night it’s the same
I wake up not knowing quite where I am Before I can call out your name

The last time I saw you there were two dead leaves
Stuck to the side of of your face
Hurrying down Archer Avenue
Towards the Resurrection gates
You looked as cold as Russian winter
As I watched you disappear
The gloves you were wearing fell to the ground
But I’ve got them for you here
I picked the rose I picked the rose
I picked the rose
From Barbara Allen’s grave