The smoke it blows
across the lawn
down in the town
at break of down.
The smoke it blows,
gets in our hair,
but all the people don't seem to care.

And now she's gone.
Oh lord, she's gone.
She's in our hair.
She's in our lawn.
And now she's gone.
Oh lord, she's gone.
She'll be in our lawn before too long.

This is not a song about a train, thank god,
so goes this little refrain that we've got,
nor is it a song about a cigarette,
or that lady in a red dress with the castanets.

No, no, no

about a guy who goes to see his ex-lover who's now dead
and what goes through his mind
(if anything at all)
as her ashes blow across a cemetery wall.

And smoke it blows,
blows across the suburbs.
And smoke it blows.
Who knows where she'll turn up next?
And smoke it blows.
This could become a real problem.
And smoke it blows.
So someone call the EPA.

Yeah, now she's gone.
Oh lord, she's gone.
She's in our hair.
She's in our lawn.
Yeah, yeah, now I'm gone.
Oh lord, I'm gone,
and i'll be in your lawn before too...