By David Allan Coe And J. Bolotin



MARIA HAS A MUSIC BOX SHE WINDS UP MOST EVERY DAY



ONCE A WEEK IS ALL IT TAKES TO MAKE THE MUSIC PLAY



MELODY IS JUST SOME CHILDHOOD LULLABY HER MOTHER



USED TO SING TO HER.



AND THE ROAD DOWN TO THE CITY GOES RIGHT BY MARIA'S DOOR



I OFTEN WALK RIGHT BY HER HOUSE ON MY WAY TO THE STORE



UP THERE WHERE THOSE ITALIAN MOTHERS



DRESS THERE SHIVERING BAMBINOS



FOR THE RAIN







SHE TELLS ME ABOUT JESUS AND ALL HIS GALLANT MEN



I TELL HER ABOUT FANTASY



MARIA SHE'S THIS LADY ON THE WAY DOWN TO THE RIVER



MARIA, SHE'S A MYSTERY







YEA PASSING BY THIS MORNING I DREW A PICTURE IN MY HEAD



OUR BODIES IN SOME CANDLELIGHT THAT GLOWED UPON OUR SKIN



MAYBE IF I TOUCHED HER SHE WOULD DISAPPEAR



LIKE ANGELS IN A DREAM.