She stood at the head of the stair
Seventeen less years more alive
How long and since she had been fair
The age she could make a boy die

That’s a hell of a thing to dream
Of distant music and death rain
Sweet poet eyes and love that bled
Til it was gone save for the shame

Pennyboy thinks she is for him
In his sex magic fantasy
But his star continues to dim
Table head, one small majesty

That’s a hell of a thing to dream
A memory packed in cotton
Topped by a stone cross that leans
Toward a vow not quite forgotten