Well fair thee, love, twas your last lie
No merciful hand to guide me by
Nor could some feign believer begging for mercy
Hold my hand idle
Like a yellow sore in a black sky
Hid the woodshed where you and your lover would lie
While the dim-witted virgins ran round in circles
Clutching their bibles

A shovel of dirt, a fistful of gravel
Peace descends on the valley
God passeth over tornado alley

Then I gazed up quite reverently
And momentarily felt repentant
And glanced at the preacher’s dry weathered hands
Withered and stale
While an ominous howling wolf did cry
Like a wretched whore out o’er the prairie
And all the cowering mongrels chained up in circles
Began to wail

A shovel of dirt, a fistful of gravel
Let justice be done in the valley
God passeth over tornado alley

True black were your eyes
A lock of your hair to remember you by
With your milky skin so fair
You looked so beautiful hovering there

A shovel of dirt, a fistful of gravel
Peace descends on the valley
God passeth over tornado alley