Fiction

It seems [G]too good to be true
But there’s a g[C]irl in Kansas City
With my [G]favourite tattoo
Oh [Am]why would I [C]lie to y[G]ou?

This was [C]in another century
Somewhere [G]near the summer’s end
The [C]fahrenheit was frightening
I was [G]awake the whole weekend
In[C]vited to a barbecue
I found [G]refuge in the kitchen
Discussing p[C]ost-war US literature
With a girl whose [G]upper arm read “fiction”
Like it [Am]might have bee[C]n type[G]written

[C] [G] – [C] [G]

When I [C]asked her its significance
She said she [G]sometimes took reminding
What she [C]wanted to be doing
Whether [G]reading it or writing
I adm[C]itted admiration
For both [G]typeface and intent
And said more s[C]oftly — sotto voce —
I knew [G]too well what she meant
She just [Am]smiled and in [C]a while she [G]went

[Dm]For a time I [Am]forgot this ever took [G]place
She left her bottle on the bookca[C]se

[G] – [C] [G] – [C] [G] – [C] [G] – [C] [G] – [C] [G]

So though I l[C]eave you little option
But to [G]take me at my word
I as[C]sure you, dearest listener
That it [G]happened as you’ve heard
A bee[C]r left on a bookshelf
At a [G]bygone barbecue
By a g[C]irl from Kansas City
With my [G]favourite tattoo
Oh [Am]why would I l[C]ie to you[G]?
Oh [Am]why would I l[C]ie to you[G]?
Oh [Am]why would I l[C]ie?      [G]