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She drove a big ol' Lincoln with suicide doors |
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And a sewing machine in the back |
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And a light bulb that looked like an alligator egg |
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Was mounted up front on the hood |
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And she had an Easter bonnet that had been signed by Tennessee Ernie Ford |
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And she always had saw dust in her hair |
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And she cut two holes in the back of her dress |
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and she had these scapular wings |
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That were covered with feathers and electrical tape |
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And when she got good and drunk |
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She would sing about Elkheart, Indiana |
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Where the wind is strong and folks mind their own business |
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And she had at least a hundred old baseballs that she'd taken from kids |
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And she collected bones of all kinds |
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And she lived in a trailer under a bridge |
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And she made her own whiskey and gave cigarettes to kids |
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And she'd been struck by lightning seven or eight times |
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And she hated the mention of rain |
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And she made up her own language |
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And she wore rubber boots |
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And she could fix anything with string |
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And her lips were like cherries |
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And she was stronger than any man |
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And she smelled like gasoline and Rootbeer Fizz |
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And she put mud on a bee sting I got at the creek |
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And she gave me my very first kiss |
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And she gave me my very first kiss |
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Talking 'bout my little Kathleen |
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She's just a fine young thing |
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Someday she'll wear my ring |
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My little Kathleen |
