Belle-Chose

Lyrics

The oak-gall dries upon the heavy leaf,
The hall leans forward, waiting for the wife.
I have a tavern vowel behind my teeth,
A blunt and muddy syllable of life.
The fire is warm, the tapestry is grand,
I hold the vellum gently in my hand.
But the Archbishop watches from the second row,
And English is a brutal stone to throw.
I feel the muscle hesitate and close—
I cross the channel, and I hand him a rose.

I call it a beautiful thing.
I wrap the rough iron in a velvet string.
A painted title for a heavy toll,
To keep the gallery quiet and spare my mortal soul.
We elevate the bargain till it glows.
If I dress it in the French, then no one knows
The earthly leverage of a belle-chose.

It is a private treasury, she claims.
An heirloom that a husband cannot hold.
She trades the keeping of it for the names,
And twenty yards of Ypres cloth, I'm told.
She knows exactly what the item weighs,
Through five long marriages and counting days.
The men of Oxford hear the foreign grace,
They bless the air and never turn in haste.
It sounds like something from a chapel choir,
When I am only stepping round the fire.

I call it a beautiful thing.
I wrap the rough iron in a velvet string.
A painted title for a heavy toll,
To keep the gallery quiet and spare my mortal soul.
We elevate the bargain till it glows.
If I dress it in the French, then no one knows
The earthly leverage of a belle-chose.

The swerve is where the mercy lies.
We grant the soil a court disguise.
Two borrowed words to do the labor of one,
So I can read the stanza,
And the reading can be done.
A silk partition in the air.

A beautiful thing.
A lovely item.
The bishop nods at the cadence.
The lady smiles.

And no one has to leave the room.
My belle-chose.