With your mercury mouth in the missionary times
And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes
And your silver cross and your voice like chimes,
Oh, who do they think could bury you?
With your pockets well protected at last
And your streetcar visions, which you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk and your face like glass,
Who could they get to carry you,
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes?
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I put them by your gate
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace
And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace
And your basement-clothes and your hollow face,
Who among them could think he could outguess you?
With your silhouette when the sunlight dims
Into your eyes, where the moonlight swims,
And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them would try to impress you,
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophets say that no man comes?
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I put them by your gate
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
The kings of Tyrus with their convict list
Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss.
And you wouldn't know it would happen like this,
But who among them really wants just to kiss you?
With your childhood flames on your midnight rug
And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs
And your cowboy mouth and your curfew-plugs,
Who among them, do you think, could resist you,
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophets say that no man comes?
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide
To show you where the dead angels are that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?
How could they ever mistake you?
They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But, with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm
And with the child of the hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How could they ever have persuaded you,
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophets say that no man's come?
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row
And your magazine-husband, who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,
Who among them, do you think, would employ you?
Now you stand with your thief – you're on his parole.
With your holy medallion in your fingertips now that fold
And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,
Who among them could ever think he could destroy you,
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophets say that no man comes?
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?