| Lyrics: | 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 among them 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
among them do they think could 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
leave 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 can 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 prophet says that no man
comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave 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 prophet says 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 the dead angels that
they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?
Oh, 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 a hoodlum wrapped up in your
arms,
How could they ever, ever persuade 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
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 which
your fingertips fold,
And your saint like face and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among them
do you think could destroy 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 leave them by your
gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait |
