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                               Fire of Regret by Laura Botsford

(Kitchen Tapes PAu000727463- © 1985)

Verse 1

WOODEN SMOKE, SOLID THICK, A BURNING LOG IT FIRED QUICK

FLAMES SHOOT AND PIERCE THE SKY

SPARKS IGNITE THEN DISAPPEAR IN THE NIGHT

Chorus 1

WATERS GONE…I MUST GET ME SOME, RIVERS WILD AND ON THE RUN

IT MUST KNOW IT’S GOING TO FIND THE SEA…WISH YOU WOULD FIND ME

OH, OH, I SEE. NO, no, no, no, NO NO, IT CAN’T BE

 

Verse 2

I TREATED YOU BADLY WAS CUTTING AND COOL

THERE’S NOTHING SADDER THAN A TO LATE LONESOME FOOL

BROKEN TRUST WON’T RETURN IN TIME

STILL I WISH YOU COULD AGAIN BE MINE

Chorus 2

I KNOW WHAT’S DONE IS DONE IF SAYING I’M SORRY WOULD CHANGE ALL,

I’D PLEAD FROM SUN TO SUN

Verse 3

FORGIVING NOT SO EASY FOR THE ONE WHO’S BEEN WRONG

STILL MY LOVE FORGIVE ME FOR YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE

OH, OH, I SEE NO, NO, NO, IT CAN’T BE

Instrumental

Verse 4

I SPEND TIME UNDER ICY STARS THAT ONLY DRIVE ME ON

MAYBE SOMEDAY I’LL GET ANOTHER CHANCE

BUT FOR NOW I’LL BURN THIS FIRE OF REGRET UNTIL IT’S DONE

Chorus 3

WATERS GONE…I MUST GET ME SOME, RIVERS WILD AND ON THE RUN

IT MUST KNOW IT’S GOING TO FIND THE SEA…WISH YOU WOULD FIND ME

OH, OH, I SEE NO, NO, NO, IT CAN’T BE

Tag

OH, OH, I SEE NO, NO, NO, IT CAN’T BE

IT CAN’T BE, IT CAN’T BE, IT CAN’T BE, IT CAN’T BE, OH

News Type

  Bookman Old Style

   In our request for changes to benefit our lives, one thing is worthy of meditation and that is, to be of kind heart worthy of poetry and steadfast in pursuit of joy as being our novel aspiration.

   “I love the relative emptiness of the days between Christmas and New Year’s. In the space of so much not happening, so much seems to be getting ready to. You can almost feel all the forces coalescing for a new beginning. The perception that it produces.
The miracle is always there.” – Marianne Williamson
   It is important to remember that miracles and vision necessarily go together. This needs repeating, and frequent repeating. It is a central idea in your new thought system, and the words that are found to describe are tapped out in sound and light. The treasure of an old typewriter is in the ink and touch of the keys on blank paper. The pressure of the strike, the shape of each hammer alphabetical key,  are all so relative to the model, settings and the age of the machine.  My father’s old Corona sits on a shelf in an aura of history that still lends a perfected cadence when tapped. His was choppy, broken in nuance and memorable in its tap. I can hear it still. The wise beating of the eloquent resilience of his life.