With your mercury mouth in the missionary times,

And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like
rhymes,

And your silver cross, and your voice like
chimes,

Oh, who among them do they think could bury you?

With your pockets well protected at last,

And your streetcar visions which you place on the
grass,

And your flesh like silk, and your face like
glass,

Who among them do they think could carry you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,

Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man
comes,

My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,

Should I leave them by your gate,

Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

With your sheets like metal and your belt like
lace,

And your deck of cards missing the jack and the
ace,

And your basement clothes and your hollow face,

Who among them can think he could outguess you?

With your silhouette when the sunlight dims

Into your eyes where the moonlight swims,

And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,

Who among them would try to impress you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,

Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man
comes,

My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,

Should I leave them by your gate,

Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

The kings of Tyrus with their convict list

Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss,

And you wouldn't know it would happen like this,

But who among them really wants just to kiss you?

With your childhood flames on your midnight rug,

And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,

And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,

Who among them do you think could resist you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,

Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man
comes,

My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,

Should I leave them by your gate,

Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did
decide

To show you the dead angels that they used to
hide.

But why did they pick you to sympathize with
their side?

Oh, how could they ever mistake you?

They wished you'd accepted the blame for the
farm,

But with the sea at your feet and the phony false
alarm,

And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in
your arms,

How could they ever, ever persuade you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,

Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man
comes,

My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,

Should I leave them by your gate,

Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,

And your magazine-husband who one day just had to
go,

And your gentleness now, which you just can't
help but show,

Who among them do you think would employ you?

Now you stand with your thief, you're on his
parole

With your holy medallion which your fingertips
fold,

And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,

Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,

Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man
comes,

My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,

Should I leave them by your gate,

Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?