Every morning at eleven She goes walking to the water In a yellow cotton dress Like somebody's lucky daughter And the butcher drops his cleaver And the priest forgets his prayer And we all lean out the windows Just to weigh her standing there Oh, she's lovely, oh, she's soft And her skin is going golden She's been ripening all August Like a peach that no one's stolen She thinks the bakery is friendly She thinks the old men like her laugh They've been fighting since July Over who gets which half Pretty for the fire Pretty for the knife She'll be the sweetest thing We've opened up all year Ah, pretty for the fire Ah, ah When the moon is fat and orange We will meet her by the jetty Tie her wrists with fishing wire While the women get the knives ready We will peel her like a mango Hang her skin out with the sheets And her bones go under the chapel Where the other pretty sleep Pretty for the fire Pretty for the knife She'll be the sweetest thing We've opened up all year Ah, pretty for the fire Ah, ah Don't look so frightened, darling. It's a very old tradition. Grandma did it. Mother did it. Your blood goes in the wine, and the wine goes to the children. Saúde, little tourist. Saúde. And the next day at eleven There's no one by the water Just a yellow cotton ribbon In the hair of the butcher's daughter And the nets come up so heavy And the vines bend to the ground And the mainland writes a letter And we write back: "Never found" Pretty for the fire Pretty for the knife She'll be the sweetest thing We've opened up all year Ah, pretty for the fire Ah, ah
