PAULINE
(Don Wayne)


Jack Barlow - 1969





The paper said she'd been arrested six hundred times
She died on the streets while her hands clutched a bottle of wine
Her home was nowhere, just anywhere she lay her head
I stared at her picture and cried at the words that I read

Her last name was unknown, but she was well known as Pauline
The streets were her living, but strong drink had hampered her means
Just a drunken old woman, a lost lonely soul in the world
But I loved her when she was hardly much more than a girl

And I still remember the warm tender love of Pauline
As I'd lie beside her and listen to her fondest dreams
Just a little white house in a valley so pretty and green
And I was a part of the dreams in the heart of Pauline

I loved her dearly and I'm sure that she worshiped me
Then someone called me a bad name that began with a B
I ran to her crying and she held me close to her breast
I said, "Am I, Mama?", and the teardrops that fell answered yes

Then she began seeking the comforts of whiskey and gin
She started having much more than her share of men friends
One day I cursed her while she nursed her bottle of wine
I said, "I hate you, Pauline, you're no mother of mine"

But I still remember the warm tender love of Pauline
I still recall how she'd hold me and rock me and sing
So I'll go claim the body of the woman they know as Pauline
And bury her high on a hillside so grassy and green
Overlooking my home that's a lot like the one in her dreams






(Transcribed by Mel Priddle - July 2012)