Sherwood Anderson

From “Mid-American Songs”

DON’T try, little one, to keep hold of me.

Go home! There’s a place for you by the fire.

Age is waiting to welcome you, love—

Go home and sit by the fire.

Into the naked street I ran,

Roaring and bellowing like a cow;

Shaking the walls of the houses down,

Proclaiming my dream of black desire.

Eighteen letters in a pigeon-hole,

Eighteen letters in a pigeon-hole.

If there’s a thing in this world that’s good it’s guts.

I’m a blackbird hovering over the land:

Go on home! Let me alone.

Eighteen letters in a pigeon-hole,

Eighteen letters in a pigeon-hole.

Do you know, little dove, I admire your lips—

They’re so red.

What are you doing out in the street?

Take my arm! Look at me!

Ah, you be gone. I’m sixty-five years old tonight,

Now what’s the use of beginning again.

Eighteen letters in a pigeon-hole,

Eighteen letters in a pigeon-hole.

Well, I’m tired. I ache. What’s the use?

I can’t meet the note. I have a son.

Let’s go home. It’s twelve o’clock.

I’m going to get that boy into West Point yet.

Eighteen letters in a pigeon-hole,

Eighteen letters in a pigeon-hole.