Unlock your broken door for me,
Lead me to your table for a broken cup of tea.
You’ve still got on your hunting shoes, and the
Melancholy aura of the Indiana dew
You say you buried her last night,
Your basset hound, Elizabeth, while the moon was slim and white.
Point through the window to her stone,
Point past the cupboard where one button sits alone.
I try to take it all in stride,
O but you, you are countrified.
I’m walking back towards my room,
Faces in the tree bark are now shifting into you.
The way you met me at your door,
The chair I sat in where nobody sat before.
Unlock the door into my room,
Lay me in my lonely chair and turn my mind to you.
You’ve never seen my room before.
It’s bright pink walls would frighten you,
There’d be too many shoes for you,
Stuffed unicorns and lipstick, too, and
Feathers on the floor.
I learn to take it all in stride.
O cause you, you are countrified.
Walking the long gray road that leads
To the grocery store, the mailbox, and a pond of scummy green.
Walk to the store but now they’re closed,
Walk to the scummy pond and toss a little stone,
Old man walks by me in his coat.
His scuffy shoes they call to me,
His long gray coat it calls to me,
His gray eyes smile politely as
He makes his way back home.
I learn to keep it all inside.
O but you, you are countrified.

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