head hung down low.
Where will she go?
Woman child, your eyes are wild.
The rain runs down your hair.
Woman child, mercy mild.
What will you tell your teddy bear?
I turned you on my solid body
my electric Gibson guitar.
My clever fingers searched
and found exactly where you are.
You went too far.
I was an early morning phone call.
What news have I received.
A halting voice is telling me,
what we have both conceived,
asking how the dilemma,
how can it be releived?
"I will give you money, Honey.
I will set up a time.
But you got to go there on your own babe,
'cause I don't know that it's mine."
Oh woman child
mama's little angel's been defiled.
Took a taxi to the clinic
where they do the modern thing.
The white coat doctor
laid her out said
"You won't feel a thing.
You get the sweet salvation
that little old knife can bring.
You don't have to worry 'bout no offspring.
Go Home and take a nap.
It's just a two hundred dollar mishap.
It don't mean a thing.
It's all over now
you can tell your singer to sing."
Writer(s): Harry F. Chapin
Copyright: Story Songs Ltd.
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