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?.