rue lane

Every day he slaves to save rue lane in gallway
Potholes filled with gravel milled from pearls
He hacks the brambles back way out of harm's way
And clips the budding tips of whipporwills

He slams his hammer down upon the oak roots
Whose sweeping tendrils creep up through the mud
And stamping on the ground with tattered old boots
He smooths the rocky road with mighty thuds

'Twas on the blackest night in late october
His lover's car came ripping down rue lane
Her driver, true to form, being far from sober
Plowed the car head first into a passing train

Now as he weeps he sweeps the twigs and fig leaves
That gather up and scatter in the lane
He's making sure the road is clear of debris
For nightly when his lass floats past on old rue lane

Words and music by michael johnson
© 2002 zubsongs, ltd.