And the hearse was theAnnotate first I’d seen of him When it came rolling in Not a cavalcade But a slow parade of black and grey
They must have found him by the roots of the red oak tree Where I had said we would meet Before an old disease took a hold of me
They found the gun because it was only two feet deep But the ground was hard So the frost display Where I was sick with shame And the branches had claimed my clothes
I turned myself in, hands in the air. What a spectacle, On a Tuesday In a small town like this. Don’t make me go back to the office; They’ve had enough of me And all of my stories.
From my window I could see the procession turn Moving down my street That they would come to me Like in some awful dream
That I would hear their voices through the floor That they would walk upstairs And that they would lay him down upon my bed
And the rain must have soaked them to the bone because instead they just headed home The slow parade just slipped away
I turned myself in, hands in the air; What a spectacle On a Tuesday In such a small town like this Don’t make me go back to the office They’ve had enough of me And all of my stories
Red Oak, Red Oak; Your roots are soaked. I know, I know; They’re soaked, they’re soaked.
I turned myself in, hands in the air. What a spectacle, On a Tuesday In such a small town like this. Don’t make me go back to the office; They’ve had enough of me, And all of my stories.