May I Call You Beatrice Lyrics

Just a little thought in the head of the one 
With the sunburnt cheeks and the eyes to the ground 
Making earwaxed tongue-tied gutter sounds 
Thinking of the lost rib, dialing the indelible 
Thinking the unthinkable-no one's home 
And the eyes say I don't believe we've met 
I don't believe you've had the privilege
I don't believe we've met 
When the wind blows cold 
And the eyes of the child grow old 
When the erratic conga rises and falls 
Above the faithful metronome 
You can take me back to the gravestone
See her strain from the weight of the globe 
Spinning around his assumptions-barefoot and tight-lipped 
He in his favourite chair blowing his world around 
First she's Beatrice, then she's a pumpkin 
Then she's a faded leaf in a book on his pantry shelf 
The head sees the hand play with the ring in the pocket 
And the head knows the hand knows the ring is as round 
As the tear-soaked shoulder in a room in another town 
The ring is getting heavy and so is the crown 
Which she drags to the chair feebly to keep the swelling down 
When the bird in the bush is worth two in the hand
And the empty cage holds the empty man 
The bird keeps flying from the Orgoglian rising 
And the phone keeps ringing and the phone keeps ringing 
And the ring keeps slipping and the phone 
And the phone keeps on ringing 
And he's thinking about the one who got away