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