by Regina Spektor

She will kiss you ’til your lips bleed
But she will not take her dress off
Americana, Tropicana

All the sailor boys have demons
They sing oh Kentucky
why did you forsake me?
If I was meant to sail the sea
Why did you make me?
It should’ve been another state, oh state

Because Mary Anne’s a bitch
Mary Anne’s a bitch
Mary Anne’s a bitch
Mary Anne’s a bitch
Mary Anne’s a bitch
Mary Anne’s a bitch

Does it matter that our anchor
Couldn’t even reach the bottom of a bath tub?
And the sails reflect the moon
It’s such a strange job
playing Black Jack on the deck

Still, atop this giant bottle
dressed in white we quietly huddle with our missiles
And we miss the girls back home
Oh home sweet home

Because Mary Anne’s a bitch
Mary Anne’s a bitch
Mary Anne’s a bitch
Mary Anne’s a bitch
Mary Anne’s a bitch
Mary Anne’s a bitch

She will kiss until your lips bleed
But she will not take her dress off
Americana, Tropicana
Americana, Tropicana
Americana, Americana

I posted this poem because I really love the imagery and the twists of bottles and tubs, missiles and kisses. Her words are as sweet and varied as verses — sung in staccato, spiccato, and legato. She’s so very prescient, but my favorite work of hers lately is actually Fidelity. I wonder if there is any connection since the guy in Fidelity resembles a Russian sailor…