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In the garden district |
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Where the plants grow strong and tall |
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Behind the bush there lurks a girl |
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Who makes them strong and tall |
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The villagers call her |
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Quicklime girl behind her back |
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Quicklime girl behind the bush |
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Quicklime girl |
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She's the mistress of the salmon salt |
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Quicklime girl |
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Quicklime girl |
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Quicklime girl |
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In the fall when plants return |
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By harvest time she knows the score |
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Ripe and ready to the eye |
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Yet rotten somehow to the core |
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And they call her |
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Quicklime girl behind her back |
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Quicklime girl behind the bush |
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Quicklime girl |
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She's the mistress of the salmon salt |
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Quicklime girl |
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Quicklime girl |
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Quicklime girl |
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A harvest of life a harvest of death |
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One body of life one body of death |
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And when you've gone and choked to death |
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With laughter and a little step |
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I'll prepare the quicklime, friend |
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For your ripe and ready grave |
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For your ripe and ready grave |
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It's springtime now and cares subside |
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And the plannings almost done |
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And fertile graves it seems exist |
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Within a mile of that juke joint |
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Where Coast Guard crews still take their leave |
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Quite listless in the sun |
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And the Quicklime girl still plies her trade |
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Reduction of the many from the one |
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And they call her |
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Quicklime girl behind her back |
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Quicklime girl behind the bush |
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Quicklime girl |
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Well she's the mistress of the salmon salt |
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Quicklime girl |
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Quicklime girl they call her |
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Quicklime girl |
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A harvest of life a harvest of death |
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Resumes its course each day |
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It comes as if by schedule |
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A harvest of limbs, of arms and of legs |
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The toes that crawl |
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The knees that jerk |
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The necks like swans that seem to turn |
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As if inclined to gasp or pray |
