| She’ll be thirty two in July
|
| And she’s only known one man
|
| A blue-eyed talker name of Hawkeye
|
| Sometimes he sold pots and pans
|
| He came to her house late one summer
|
| When she was ripe and twenty two
|
| He stayed awhile with her that summer
|
| And if he left we never knew
|
| And he called her Dolly
|
| And he called her Dolly
|
| And he called…
|
| Called her Dolly
|
| She hasn’t spoken since that summer
|
| Her hair has turned a silver grey
|
| Her eyes turned yellow like the roses
|
| She weeds and waters everyday
|
| And people come to buy the roses
|
| But sell them one she will not do
|
| She sits there in her six foot garden
|
| And counts the roses two-by-two
|
| And he called her Dolly
|
| And he called her Dolly
|
| And he called…
|
| Called her Dolly
|
| One day a man came by to see her
|
| He said he was Hawkeye’s best friend
|
| He wondered had she’d seen old Hawkeye
|
| Her yellows eyes smiled up at him
|
| She turned and walked down to her garden
|
| And picked two roses of her choice
|
| And when she gave them to the stranger
|
| He thought he heard old Hawkeye’s voice
|
| And he called her Dolly
|
| And he called her Dolly
|
| And he called…
|
| Called her Dolly |