Brian Laidlaw

Poet | Songwriter | Educator

Abigail

 

I clutched you to my side like a broken wing

You shivered when you cried like a little nerve

I thought I was in love, until I broke the thing

That gave me so much more than I deserve

 

Sweet Abigail, soft and frail, Abigail I’ve done you wrong.

 

I turned away from you like a calendar page

Overnight I knew your time was done

You hunted for my reasons, but none of them were decent

I’m sorry, open season has begun

 

Sweet Abigail, soft and frail, Abigail I’ve done you wrong.

 

I deserve to be hunted down, hunted down and killed

The stove is on, the water’s hot, the pot’s already filled

Abigail is on the trail; I deserve to be gutted and flayed—

Pluck my skin, put me in, and cook me on the flames

 

Sweet Abigail, soft and frail, I’ve done you wrong.

 

You reduced me to writing songs about injured birds

Introduced me to the beast that I’ve become

You hunted for my reasons, but none of them were decent

           I’m sorry, open season has begun