Eighty years, an old lady now, sitting on the front porch 
Watching the clouds roll by 
They remind her of her lover, how he left her, and of times long ago, 

When she used color carelessly, painted his portrait 
A thousand times - or maybe just his smile - 
And she and her canvas would follow him wherever he would go 

`Cause they were painters and they were painting themselves 
A lovely world 

Oil streaked daisies covered the living room wall 
He put water colored roses in her hair 
He said, "Love, I love you, I want to give you the mountains, the 
sunshine, 
the sunset too 
I want to give you everything as beautiful as you are to me 

`Cause they were painters and they were painting themselves 
A lovely world 

So they sat down and made a drawing of their love, an art to live by 

They painted every, passion every home, created every beautiful child 

in the winter they were weavers of warmth, 
in the summer they were carpenters of love 
They thought blue prints were too sad so they made them yellow 

`Cause they were painters, and they were painting themselves 
A lovely world 

Until one day the rain fell as thick as black oil 
And in her heart she knew something was wrong 
She went running 
through the orchard screaming, 
`No God, don`t take him from me!` 
But by the time she got there, she feared he already had gone 
She got to where he lay, water colored roses in his hands for her 
She threw them down screaming, `Damn you man, don`t leave me 
with nothing left behind but these cold paintings, these cold portraits 

to remind me!` 

He said, `Love I leave, but only a little, try to understand 
I put my sould in this life we created with these four hands 
Love, I leave, but only a little, this world holds me still 
My body may die now, but these paintings are real` 
So many seasons came and so many seasons went 
and many times she saw he love`s face watering the flowers, 
talking to the trees and singing to his children, 
And when the wind blew, she knew he was listening, 
and how he seemed to laugh along, an how he seemed to hold her 
when she was crying 

`Cause they were painters, and they were painting themselves 
A lovely world 

Eighty years, an old lady now, sitting on the front porch 
Watching the clouds roll by 
They remind her of her lover, how he left her, and of times long ago, 

When she used color carelessly, painted his portrait 
A thousand times - or maybe just his smile - 
And she and her canvas would follow him wherever he would go 
Yes, she and her canvas still follow 

Because they are painters and they are painting themselves 
A lovely world