Seven years burning up the load
In a hurry from here to known
Just water in the pot to boil
And the father and the son
Under the soil

Bitter is the sent
Question of living
Question of bent

Just a drop of blood
Left in the vinegar and oil

Wonder who lives past recoil

It was summer time in Texas
Left her hanging from a tree
Bunch of sheets blowing in the breeze
Time it has no mother
Wisdom no fame
Birth mark leaves no name
Just this side of hell
Little has changed

Now the faith is swinging dry
In the corner of heaven
A few do cry
But the angels just pass the golden harp
Was this the way
It all will all stop

Took the coins from my pocket
Placed over her eyes
Laid another for the journey
Under her tongue
Watch the river turn to red
Which of us is alive
And which of us is dead

Seven years burning up the load
In a hurry from here to known
Just water in the pot to boil
And the father and the son
Under the soil