Where did you roll, Butch Dogwood, my son?
And what did you prove, my darling young one?
I been to the Hotel up yonder high town
a fixing the letters, and I fain would lie down.
O where did you sleep, Butch Dogwood, my son?
Whose bed was your rest, my darling young one?
I slept in the fern under an ash tree tower
and a black headed dancer did lie with me there.
Why are your cheekbones so ruddy and hot
and why do your hands so flutter and drop?
O tell me your trouble, Butch Dogwood, my son,
then sup at the table on squirrel and buns.
I can’t eat for the searing light in my head—
that Dimnah she fed me then left me for dead.
We courted next a fire, she straddled her broom,
and she fried up the cornmeal with pasture mushrooms.
Who was this sly maid, Butch Dogwood, my son,
and where does she stay, my darling young one?
She’s the hotel mam’s daughter whose movements I know,
she’s poisoned my brainpan and I fain would lie low.
Go sit in the meadow, Butch Dogwood, my son,
and count you the stars, my darling young one.
Make your play pretties for a happy book’s spine
and quit that dark girl with her hollowed out shine.
Well I’ll count the pinpricks poked in the sky,
this damage has settled my heart on my eye,
I’ll pull down the shades on a talisman page
and draw scriptural light for my dying last wage.
