Written by Bill Kelly Produced by Lincoln Schleifer
Larry Cambell fiddle, pedal steel Bill Kelly vocal, guitar, mandola John Korba, background vocals Denny McDermott Drums Lincoln Schleifer, bass John Ginty, Piano
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Seraphima
Bill Kelly © 05
She sits at the picnic with nothing to say
And it looks like she’s made out of paper Mache
Painted on eyebrows that melt in the rain
On the little lost girl that lives down the lane
Where cowboys and indians are playing on beat up old cars
With short cuts and bad seeds that only grow weeds in your heart
Seraphima the bands gonna start
And you got all that free time on your dance card
Seraphima buckle your shoe
Honey are those boys bothering you
It gets dark so early and it’s cold on the clay
A five o’clock whistle is blowing away
The leaves still look pretty where he’s holding her down
And a stop light is blinking in the center of town
Blue eyes that glow like a pair of old TV’s
Trying to find a channel to someplace where she’d rather be
There’s blood on her ankle and cum on her lace
And dear Father Hanley petting her face
Run along Seraphima it’s starting to snow
Buckle your shoe no one must know
And time passes by like the cars that roll down her lane
And a scar turns purple when ever it’s bout to rain
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