On a tiny stool sits an old black gypsy woman Her head wrapped a faded tignon Grey tinted granny glasses Corn pipe on her lips A double-barreled shot-gun sat on her lap A jug of cachaca to her side Some times she and the old widow woman would drink and smoke late into the night They were not afraid Her face weathered by time Wrinkled from the drink Her eyes, elegant, youthful bright, she could see past you She was not some card cutting bone reader She would rather drink tea leaves than read them To her palms are for shaken, stars are for gazin and numbers are for figurin how much you owed her for spending her time explaining the real world versus nonsense She was born with a veil over her face, an extra finger and thirteen toes. She has a gift. People would praise her to which she would reply every gift is a curse. We, in the neighborhood, called her Madame Jeanette They say she know spells We know she can sweep her floor and weave tales Sometime you would pass her and she would be drunk She would look at one of us and say something bad bout to happen and we ask why
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