down in the garden district, where the plants grow strong and tall, behind the bush there lurks a girl, who makes them strong and tall, villagers call her: quicklime girl, behind her back: quicklime girl, behind the bush: quicklime girl, she's the mistress of the salmon salt: quicklime girl, in the fall when plants return, by harvest time, she knows the score, ripe and ready to the eye, but rotten somehow to the core, villagers call her: quicklime girl, behind her back: quicklime girl, behind the bush: quicklime girl, she's the mistress of the salmon salt: quicklime girl, a harvest of life, or harvest of death, one body of life, one body of death, and when you've gone and choked to death, with laughter and a little step, i'll prepare the quicklime, friend, for your ripe and ready grave, it's springtime now and cares subside, and the planting's almost done, and fertile graves, it seems, exist, within a mile of that duke's joint, where coast guard crews still take their leave, lying listless in the sun, and the quick lime girl still plies her trade, the reduction of the many from the one, and they call her: quicklime girl, behind her back: quicklime girl, behind the bush: quicklime girl, she's the mistress of the salmon salt: quicklime girl, a harvest of life, a harvest of death, resumes it's course each day, because it exists by schedule, a harvest to live, and those that crawl, and those that chirp, and next life's swans that seem to turn
