She's crooked along with her spine,
her smile devious and devine,
a great politician for a game of lying,
a heart-breaker with the amount that's dying.

Call the mortician and tell him the brim of noon,
on a slab,
I'll see you soon.

Weeks pass into months,
I miss June.

I'm counting stars while I ponder about you,
I'm severing the moon sitting alone,
laying my chips out on the table to gamble all away,
Call the mortician the sun's rising today.