DANGEROUS AGE (© Words and Music by Paul F. Cowlan )

Sauda, on the west coast of Norway, where I was warned by the management that the audience would throw bottles if they didn’t like the music. It wasn’t only your age that might prove dangerous.

She laughs and tosses her hair back,
lets her eyes wander, and smiles to herself.
She needs no second opinion,
just that one glance round at everyone else.
Then smiling, and feigning indifference,
she turns her face up to the stage
where she lets it remain,
and to keep myself sane I think,
“What a dangerous age!”

Sometimes she watches me,
sometimes she’s miles away, and quite unconcerned.
Is that the poise she was born with,
or is it some beautiful game that she’s learned?
I pretend that I still haven’t seen her,
but really I’m trying to gauge just what she’s about,
but what isn’t in doubt is that she’s at a dangerous age.

And what do I know of her
making me go over questions like these all the time?
What makes it so cruel is she’ll still be at school,
and she could be a daughter of mine.

She waits till I’m passing her table,
then she beckons, and asks me to come and sit down.
We talk about dreams and The Tarot,
and she tells me something of what she has found
to be true in her stars and her fortune,
quoting me page after page from the books that she’s read,
but I'm thinking instead, “What a dangerous age!”

She knows where I’m living,
but still isn’t giving the half her intentions away.
I suspect what she needs is a mirror, not me,
but it isn’t my business to say.

It’s late, the tables are empty,
so I take my guitar, and we both say goodbye;
but just after two I am woken again
by a knock on the door, and she’s standing outside.
The tears in her eyes make me wonder
“Is she here to engage in regrets or romance?
Or to just take a chance with love at the dangerous age?”
So I lend her my shoulder to cry on,
and she opens her heart until well after four.
She tells me that I understand her,
but she doesn’t know what to believe any more.
Then she sleeps in my arms till the morning,
and watching her, I gently rage against Fortune and Fate;
she was born just too late
and she’s still at a dangerous age.

We're still at that dangerous age.