©1975 Andrew Calhoun, recorded on Water Street.

My father died, with wrinkled cheeks 
I watched him grow old in two weeks 
His lips like liver, his face so white 
He clutched the sheets, and moaned all night 
When my father died, I cried and cried 
And tried to fill the hole inside 
My father fell down on the run 
Between myself and the setting sun 
And it became so clear and plain 
That I would die, and my own son 
Would someday die the same 

O my friends, I hate to go 
Though I never felt quite here you know 
But trust comes only when you bend 
We all get left out in the end 
For when we die, I don't know why 
I guess we die alone 

A woman's legs, a woman's love 
A woman's thighs, a woman's blood 
Between the sheets, we held our strength 
And lay in melancholy warmth 
Worried for friends, and daughter and sons 
And suicide, and money and guns 
Down in the sewers of the earth 
I fought for you 
I never thought I would die first 
Such a weak and sinful thing to do 

There's a madness I've not felt before 
Between my shoulders and the floor 
My body stands in total shock 
There's something I've been waiting for 
A key is turning in the lock 
And when my foot slips off the wheel 
I wonder how my feet will feel? 
I spoke to God the other night 
Why do you watch your children burn? 
—It's jealousy 
Between the coldness and the heat 
Infinite, but incomplete 
I don't know what to learn 
This room some warm and holy tomb 
Between the wasteland and the womb 
O my woman, O my wife 
Acts of love and facts of life 
Seem to separate from one another 
Turn the mirror to the wall 
I can hardly see my face at all 
I don't know what waits in store 
Out of sight, but just ahead 
And as we fade I am afraid 
That I won't see you anymore 
And I won't know you anymore 
And I won't know I love you anymore