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(difford/tilbrook) |
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She unscrews the top of a new whiskey bottle |
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And shuffles about in her candle lit hovel, |
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Like some kind of witch with blue fingers in mittens |
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She smells like the cat and the neighbours she sickens, |
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The black and white t.v. has long seen a picture |
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The cross on the wall is a permanent fixture, |
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The postman delivers the final reminders |
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She sells off her silver and poodles in china. |
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Drinks to remember, i me and myself |
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And winds up the clock |
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And knocks dust from the shelf |
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Home is a love that i miss very much |
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So the past has been bottled and labelled with love. |
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During the war time an american pilot |
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Made every air raid a time of excitement, |
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She moved to his prairie and married the texan |
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She learnt from a distance how love was a lesson, |
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He became drinker and she became mother |
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She knew that one day she'd be one or the other, |
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He ate himself older, drunk himself dizzy |
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Proud of her features, she kept herself pretty. |
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He like a cowboy died drunk in his slumber |
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Out on the porch in the middle of summer, |
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She crossed the ocean back home to her family |
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But they had retired to roads that were sandy, |
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She moved home alone without friends or relations |
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Lived in a world full of age reservation, |
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On moth eaten armchairs she'd say that she'd sod all |
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The friends who had left her to drink from the bottle. |
