Green leaves are turning, and the wind’s picking up
Autumn reminds me of old fashioned stuff
Out of the window, are-a green gazing eyes
Staring at me while I wear my disguise
That’s Mr Foreman, he lives alone
He peers through his window, the rest is unknown
I spoke with the neighbours, they tell me he’s ill
His doorstep is filled, with dead daffodils
Black morning flowers, they thought he had died
A common conception, when hiding inside
Never a letter, or knock at the door
Hard to believe what the flowers lay for
That’s Mr Foreman, he lives alone
His wife was a painter, a long time ago
I spoke with his neighbours, they tell me he’s ill
His doorstep is filled, with dead daffodils
Green leaves are turning, and the wind’s picking up
Autumn reminds me of old fashioned stuff
Out of the window, are-a green gazing eyes
Staring at me while I wear my disguise
That’s Mr Foreman, he lives alone
He needed a coffin, he hand-made his own
I spoke with his neighbours, they tell me he’s ill
His doorstep is filled, with dead daffodils