Not a place, a person of interest,
A scallywag, a minister, a drunk, a spinster.
She wore orange burlap as clothes,
Plastic bags for leggings, kerosene for perfume.
A long white robe she slept in,
A brass tub full of rose water she bathed in.
The three story hotel on Virginia Beach,
Where Miss Idaho lived, where Preshly imbibed.
That bald old boyfriend, ninety-three in May,
The ceremony is on the beach, the flowers in the hair.
I will be there, I will be there, I will be there in May,
Lighting torches and playing beautiful music by the sea.
The only reason I have is setting things straight,
The only passion I have for Preshly Idaho runs deep.
Just send the money, honey, I can’t sleep, I’m the sheep,
Jumping once, counting twice, pitching wine at the big feast.
For myself, nothing, to her everything, silence for me as she sings,
I lost the love of my life, no wife, no strife, no life with a wife.. No life.