| Old dark ruby coats his throat
|
| Gloves a feathered mind
|
| Sharpens up her fountain pen
|
| Lay ink down along the table
|
| Plaintive, brickyard textbook line
|
| Whips her fable down
|
| As long as she’s able
|
| As long as she is able
|
| Bang up, wave the weaver’s wand
|
| Hand against the sky
|
| Day is rain so watch things grow
|
| Light pours through her window
|
| Tack will need a hefty breeze
|
| Blow as though can be
|
| As long as she’s able
|
| As long as she is able
|
| Just as long as she’s able
|
| As long, as long as she is able
|
| Now here’s a loud that turns to wail
|
| Salvage bits of wire
|
| Holding history blown to hell
|
| He’ll nod off and she will sing
|
| He won’t dream and she won’t sew
|
| Talking never stops, no
|
| Not as long as she’s able
|
| Not as long as she is able
|
| Not as long as she is able
|
| Not as long
|
| The next day holds a smell to it
|
| Permeates the house
|
| Marches into each cold room
|
| Stands as long as Sunday
|
| Preaches loud as elder ears
|
| Year’s they’ll rectify
|
| As long as they are able
|
| Just as long as they are able
|
| As long as they’re able |