C'est la vie (How could I be anything but a song?)

There was a girl who would perch at the end of my bed
like it was a bench in New Orleans
complete with a brass band
and a red dress that moved against the breeze  

the cracked paint on the tip of her crossed leg bobbed
as she sang songs of me
written with the softest insults I've ever heard
hiding between every wayward key

I've never known what she saw
with the eye that hid behind her hair
or if anyone has seen it since

she set sail from this island
long heartaches ago
but sometimes
a bottle will wash ashore that knows her songs
and I'll hope she got her brass band