Tom: F
Introdução: F Gm Bb C F Gm D Db C Bb Gm
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In the garden district, where the plants grow strong and tall
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Behind the bush there lurks a girl, who makes them strong and tall
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They just call her, Quicklime Girl, behind her back, Quicklime Girl
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Behind the bush, Quicklime Girl, she's the mistress of the salmon salt
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Quicklime Girl, Quicklime Girl, Quicklime Girl
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In the fall when plants return, by harvest time, she knows the score
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Ripe and ready to the eye, but rotten somehow to the core
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And they call her, Quicklime Girl, behind her back, Quicklime Girl
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Behind the bush, Quicklime Girl, she's the mistress of the salmon salt
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Quicklime Girl, Quicklime Girl, Quicklime Girl
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A harvest of life, or harvest of death, one body of life, one body of death
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And when you've gone and choked to death, with laughter and a little step
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I'll prepare the quicklime, friend, for your ripe and ready grave
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For your ripe and ready grave
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It's springtime now and cares subside, and the planting's almost done
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And fertile graves, it seems, exist, within a mile of that juke joint
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Where Coast Guard crews still take their leave, quite listless in the sun
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And the Quicklime Girl still plies her trade, reduction of the many from the one
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And they call her, Quicklime Girl, behind her back, Quicklime Girl
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Behind the bush, Quicklime Girl, well she's the mistress of the salmon salt
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Quicklime Girl, Quicklime Girl, Quicklime Girl
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A harvest of life, a harvest of death, resumes its course each day
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It comes as if by schedule, a harvest of limbs, of arms and of legs
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The toes that crawl, and the knees that jerk, and neck like swans that seem to turn
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As if inclined to grasp or pray