Skip to main content

Little Lila Raine

She is home in Tennessee
Little Lila Raine
Pretty as a willow tree
Little Lila Raine

Caterpillar on the floor
Little Lila Raine
Sunshine dances in your door
Little Lila Raine

Oh, little Lila
Little Lila Raine
Oh, little Lila
Little Lila Raine

You’re my little sugar bean
Little Lila Raine
Lucky clover on the green
Little Lila Raine

Tell me what you did today
Little Lila Raine
Skip and sing and laugh and play
Little Lila Raine

Oh, little Lila
Little Lila Raine
Oh, little Lila
Little Lila Raine

Black cat purrs beside the fire
Little Lila Raine
Red squirrel runs across the wire
Little Lila Raine

When the moon drops off to bed
Little Lila Raine
Put a rosebud by his head
Little Lila Raine

Oh Little Lila
Little Lila Raine
Oh, little Lila
Little Lila Raine

Tiny mermaid loves to dream
Little Lila Raine
Splashing down a lazy stream
Little Lila Raine

Kiss your mama, hug your pa
Little Lila Raine
Crows in the tree, go caw - caw
Little Lila Raine

Oh, little Lila,
Little Lila Raine,
Oh, little Lila,
Little Lila Raine

Always tell the day hello
Little Lila Raine
Night’s your time to sleep and grow
Little Lila Raine

Button mouth and bluebell eyes
Little Lila Raine
Sing your rag doll lullabies
Little Lila Raine

Oh, little Lila,
Little Lila Raine,
Oh, little Lila,
Little Lila Raine

Oh, little Lila,
Little Lila Raine,
Oh, little Lila,
Little Lila Raine

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend

  Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend And life a faithful pillow - a pillow to go flat, a spirit to drift off,  glaciers to melt and raise the sea. The blueprint is clear - Expect a tiny storm of mercy–  full of crows and bottle flies to debride the corpse,  to tithe the land.      And respect the putrid demise - things that fall apart make space for miracles.   Yet there persists the memory of breath rinsed in lavender and salt air. Then the dreams for blood and semen to revive, to metabolize  every tired, sad gospel into a hatch of octopus. Death confesses everything as she conjures her necrosis, as she feigns redemption, fools us with false devotion. She believes our defiance will set her free.   We must let grief to be the thread and needle to darn the rend, renew the cloth. then we can grasp the nascent green of winter wheat in spring.
Post a Comment
Read more