The Mortician's Daughter

I used to love the mortician’s daughter
We drew our hearts on the dusty coffin lids
I grieve tonight over this letter
My tears dissolve an image from the careful ink
Her father stands in the open door, he’s waiting for her
There’s a storm blowing across the lake, it’s late summer
On the broken step is a cardboard box full of wilted flowers
She whispers in my burning ear, «it doesn’t matter»
I used to love the mortician’s daughter
We rolled in the warm grass by the boneyard fence
Her skin so white, the first leaves falling
This long forgotten night, I am there again
Her father stands in the open door, he’s waiting for her
There’s a ribbon printed with «last respects» flowing down the gutter
And the rain comes in and she drops my hand she’s turning, laughing
And I used to love the mortician’s daughter
I used to love the mortician’s daughter
We drew our hearts on the dusty coffin lids
There’s a lonely dove out on the telephone wire
I turn my head and she flies away