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Lipstick On His Collar Geneva Keith
Every Friday night at the window, I get a glimpse of Mr. Jones;
He gets all dresses up for dinner, then he sits to ear alone.
He gets out the 45 records, for their old phonegraph;
Just why does he do that, my nextdoor neighbor asked.
I said the Mrs's passed last winter, on a cold November day;
Except for Friday nights now, Mr. Jones is doing OK.
You see Friday night was their night, and it don't do no harm;
He plays Waltz Across Texas, like he had her in his arms.
I told her I used to watch them, I had to take that chance;
They were 60 years together, and it didn't stop the dance.
She'd always kiss his neck, while dancing in the parlor;
She kissed, and left her lipstick on his collar.
It's Friday night, again tonight, but it looks like no one's home;
The lights are out, the curtains drawn, and I don't see Mr. Jones.
Where's he at, I had to know, so I got on the phone;
When I found out, I realized, Mr. Jones wasn't alone.
They told me Mr. Jones had died, and he's been gone a week;
It was late last Friday night, that he want peaceful in his sleep.
They found him sitting in his chair, all dressed up in the parlor;
But what they couldn't figure out was, there was lipstick on his collar.
They said the phonograph was playing, repeating, a song called Tennessee Waltze;
He was clinging to her photograph, the on missing from the bedroom wall.
I know she came for him, together again, and I'll bet you a dollar;
When she kissed his neck, she kissed and left, her lipstick on his collar.
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