Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M.

Some day, I will write a story based upon this song:


I can hear the soft breathing of the girl that I love,
As she lies here beside me, asleep with the night.
And her hair in a fine mist floats on my pillow,
Reflecting the glow of the winter moonlight.


She is soft, she is warm, but my heart remains heavy,
And I watch as her breast gently rises, gently falls,
For I know at the first light of dawn, I'll be leaving,
And tonight will be all I have left to recall.


Oh, what have I done, why have I done it?
I've committed a crime, broken the law.
For twenty-five dollars and pieces of silver,
I held up and robbed a hard liquor store.


My life seems unreal, my crimes an illusion,
A scene badly written in which I must play.
Yet I know as I gaze at my young love beside me,
The morning is just a few hours away.