let us go to spain.
we'll have a fine place
on the promenade,
and i'll bring you oranges
from the marketplace.

and at night,
armed with only my guitar,
i will brave the
pulsing avenidas.
singing my pitiful songs,
passing a withered hat,
and looking into the eyes
of a ragged dawn.

and i'll come home with wine,
my fingers bleeding
and badly calloused,
but you shall never want
for anything.