W.A. Fite

W.A. Fite
Courtesy James Villa Photography 2012

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Lyrics: Crazy Horse

My life is emptying, as she lies on the corner of my bed.
My time is emptying, as it clicks the tick-tock it makes sense.
My love is silent she makes no waves, smiles as I rest.
We laid upon the rocks to see how hard that sleeping should have been.
I've gone to Crazy Horse to ask him for advice. He makes no sense.

Where has my woman gone?
She took the flashlight, when she took the tent.
Now I am huddled down, with no light, nothing but the wind.
Back out to Crazy Horse, asking please and thank you. Let me in.

Another turn away and I'd turn back, but this shit it don't make sense.
Wrapped in a safety bag, lying on the rocks the clock it ticks.
My life is emptying as I smell the wind turn cold as death.
My love is silent as she lies on the corner of my bed.

If I could sleep to dream; would she appear as she once did?
Curled down on my lap whispering sweet words that she'd never say...





Thursday, October 21, 2010

Lyrics: Tennessee Tango Whiskey

The Tennesse boy's shoes don't tie right.
His shirt don't tuck with them jeans so tight.
Pockets of dust, and an empty mouth, but that shit don't matter it's a Saturday night, Alright.
Out on Alsup Road...sip on Lightning Joe.

Here waits Sam with her rolled red hair.
On Highway 61, thumb in the air.
Her lips are drawl. Her legs are lean. In fifteen hours she'll be in New Orleans, Nawlins.
Up on Royal Street. Sam at Mr. B's.

The boy is skinny, but his voice is deep.
His beard won't grow out on his cheeks.
Half a cigarette hangs by his teeth.
Vulgar tones a mane of grease.

Here comes the love of the redhead child.
His eyes are locked on her frame of wire.
Shimmying down Canal and Camp, to the rhythm of the steps of the one he desires.
He's light and wild.
She's fair stone mild. Sam at Mr. B's.

The love can't find Sam at Mr. B's.
He turns west 14 blocks, Bourbon Street.
Spots her frame and stops to breathe.
Takes her hand, she sighs relief.

There goes Sam and her rolled redhair.
Struttin' hot coals. Nose in the air.
Her style is cloudy, but skirt is clean. And for this city that's enough to be crowned queen.