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 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 could they get to carry you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no [bad word] 
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian [bad word] 
Should I put them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace,
And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace,
And your basement clothes and your hollow face,
Who among them did think he could outguess you?
With your silhouette when the sunlight dims
Into your eyes where the moonlight swims,
And your matchbook songs and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them would try to impress you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet say that no [bad word] 
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian [bad word] 
Should I put them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

The kings of [bad word] with their convict list
Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would happen like this,
But who among them really wants just to kiss you?
With your childhood flames on your [bad word] 
And your Spanish manners and your mother's [bad word] 
And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think could resist you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet say that no [bad word] 
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian [bad word] 
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide
To show you where the dead angels are that they used to hide
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?
How could they ever mistake you?
They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
And with the child of the hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How could they ever have persuaded you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet say that no [bad word] 
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian [bad word] 
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,
And your magazine husband who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,
Who among them do you think would employ you?
Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole
With your holy medallion in your fingertips now enfold,
And your saint-like face and your ghostlike soul,
Who among them could ever think he could destroy you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet say that no [bad word] 
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian [bad word] 
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?