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
