Let’s start a family, Mr. Sir,
but no babies.
I’m full to death of babies.
Let’s gather up our elders-
pick a sidewalk and get to lookin’-
by the length of their beards,
Let’s hit the bricks of Southampton,
the beaches of Santa Monica,
the bridges of Madison County,
playing I Spy for the chosen ones.
‘Cause I got no blood worth giving,
but it boils still sometimes,
like the rum-drenched crotchety old farmers
I want to find with you.
Start a family with me, Mr. Sir,
and we’ll have a table miles long-
dirty faces and whistled blessings,
all the stories we didn’t write-
and no god-forsaken babies.