great granny was a vagabonds wife,
and grandmother was the same.
mother tried real hard to be,
but it didn't work out in the end.
i'm speaking now to women about,
who think they are ready to try.
a life that makes no since to the head,
a life with a vagabond in your bed.
first there are the logistical things;
how to live out of a sack,
with perpetual lack,
and not looking back.
then there are the practical things;
making makeshift door mats,
where to hang your hats,
how to keep away rats.
for a decade or so,
you will be bothered with where you go.
though as time slips by,
you will learn to follow without a sigh.
days start to seem shorter,
though cold not much colder.
an end can seem far
when you don't know how happy you are.
i can't imagine a life other then this,
though i never thought much of eternal bliss.
you might think you can change him, or find compromise.
let me just stop you, let me advise:
do not be a vagabond's wife
less you love the vagabond's life.
you may well love him more then you dare,
but i promise you'll soon rather have a reclining chair.
