Red Oak
And the hearse was the 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.