Painters

Eighty Years, An Old Lady Now, Sitting On the Front Porch /
 Watching the Clouds Roll By / They Remind Her of Her 
Lover, How He Left Her, and of Times Long Ago / When She 
Used Color Carelessly, Painted His Portrait / a Thousand 
Times--or Maybe Just His Smile-- / and She and Her Canvas 
Would Follow Him Wherever He Would Go

'cause They Were Painters and They Were Painting Themselves
 / a Lovely World

Oil-streaked Daisies Covered the Living Room Wall / He Put 
Water-colored Roses in Her Hair / He Said, "Love, I Love 
You, I Want to Give You Mountains, the Sunshine / the 
Sunset Too / I Want to Give You Everything As Beautiful As 
You Are to Me."

'cause They Were Painters and They Were Painting Themselves
 / a Lovely World

So They Sat Down and Made a Drawing of Their Love, An Art 
to Live By / They Painted Every Passion, Every Home, 
Created Every Beautiful Child / in the Winter They Were 
Weavers of Warmth / in Summer They Were Carpenters of Love 
/ They Thought Blue Prints Were Too Sad So They Made Them 
Yellow

'cause They Were Painters and They Were Painting Themselves
 / a Lovely World

Until One Day the Rain Fell As Thick As Black Oil / and in 
Her Heart She Knew Something Was Wrong / She Went Running /
 Through the Orchard Screaming, / "No God, Don't Take Him 
From Me!" / But By the Time She Got There, She Feared He 
Already Had Gone

She Got to Where He Lay, Water-colored Roses in His Hands 

For Her / She Threw Them Down Screaming, 'damn You Man, 
Don't Leave Me / With Nothing Left Behind But These Cold 
Paintings, These Cold Portraits / to Remind Me!"

He Said, "Love I Leave, But Only a Little, Try to 
Understand / I Put My Soul in This Life We Created With 
These Four Hands / Love, I Leave, But Only a Little, This 
World Holds Me Still / My Body May Die Now, But These 
Paintings Are Real."

So Many Seasons Came and Many Seasons Went / and Many Times
 She Saw Her Love's Face Watering the Flowers, / Talking to
 the Trees and Singing to His Children / and When the Wind 
Blew, She Knew He Was Listening, / and How He Seemed to 
Laugh Along, and How He Seemed to Hold Her / When She Was 
Crying
'cause They Were Painters and They Were Painting Themselves
 / a Lovely World
Eighty Years, An Old Lady Now, Sitting On the Front Porch /
 Watching the Clouds Roll By, They Remind Her of Her Lover 
/ How He Left Her and of Times Long Ago, When She Used to 
Color Carelessly, / Painted His Portrait a Thousand Times, 
Or Maybe Just His Smile, / and She and Her Canvas Would 
Follow Him Wherever He Would Go / Yes, She and Her Canvas 
Still Follow
Because They Are Painters and They Are Painting Themselves 
/ a Lovely World