bramble gate

down along that night river
just a wee drink to forget
boots wet at the bank
with these soles worn thin

maybe, baby, i'm never
gonna find my way back
from this bramble gate
cos two coins, i have, and
some lives like mine are
bought on the cheap

cats laughing in lead*
as they swap laps, boiling
from red vinyl seats
in a wrinkled mirror—
searing way down

already, i am ready
to burn october, and
maybe, baby, i don't
want to find my way
back to the place
where i come from

* the Pb type; ask Robert Plant about it if confused