Hey there, Mary, what’s the story,
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saw you lying there on the bed,
your skirt above your scabby knees.
Just another hot summer night
and you knew, you knew you’d decide
even if it would cost that much,
after all you wanted to sin.
Just tell yourself there was still love
in that sticky sweat-covered room.
And the clock was ticking away,
the cigarette, still on your breath,
not saying anything out loud
because the silence sounds better.
But love, that unlovely species,
too tough to die, too proud to stay,
turned into a Catholic’s story
if there ever was one of those.
How high is the price for secrets,
for the murder of a child?
You paid with your hands out praying,
hey there, Mary, what’s the story,
save yourself from purgatory.