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Eighty years
An old lady now
Sitting on the front porch
Watching the clouds roll by
They remind her of her lover
How he left her
And of times long ago
When she used
Color carelessly
Painted his portrait
A thousand times
Or maybe just his smile
And her and her canvas would follow him
Wherever he would go
'Cause they were painters
And they were painting themselves
A lovely world
Oil streaked daisies
Covered the living room wall
He put water colored roses in her hair
He said, "Love, I love you
I want to give you the mountains
The sunshine
The sunset too
I just want to give a world
As beautiful as you are to me
Cuz I'm a painter
And I want to paint you
A lovely world"
So they sat down
And made a drawing of their love
An art to live by
They painted every passion
Every home
Created every beautiful child
In the winter they were weavers of warmth
In the summer they were carpenters of love
They thought blue prints were too sad
So they made them yellow
And they were painters
And they were had painted themselves
A lovely world
Until one day the rains fell
As thick as black oil
And in her heart
She knew something was wrong
She went running
Through the orchard screaming
"No God, don't take him from me!"
And by the time she got there
She feared he already had gone
She got to where he lay
Water colored roses in his hands for her
She threw them down screaming
"Damn you man, don't leave me
with nothing left behind
but these cold paintings
these cold portraits
to remind me!"
He said
"Love I only leave a little
Try to understand
I put my soul in this life
We've created with these four hands
Love, I leave, but only a little
This world holds me still
My body may die now
But these paintings are real"
So many seasons came
And many seasons went
And many times she saw her love's face
Watering the flowers
Talking to the trees
And singing to his children
And when the winds blew
She knew he was listening
And how he seemed to laugh along
And how he seemed to hold her
When she was crying
Cuz they were painters
And they had painted themselves
A lovely world
Eighty years
An old lady now
Sitting on the front porch
Watching the clouds roll by
They remind her of her lover
How he left her
And of times long ago
When she used
Color carelessly
Painted his portrait
A thousand times
Or maybe just his smile
And her and her canvas would follow him
Wherever he would go
Yes, she and her canvas still follow
Cuz they are painters
And they are painting themselves
A lovely...
Yes they are painters
And they are painting themselves
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