Lorraine, she is my lady love
And there is none I hold above
No other mortal mademoiselle
Could cast on me as strong a spell
To hold me in this dreamlike state
Where I would sit for years and wait
Till tide churns up the ocean floor
Her bottled note, to wash ashore:
Love’s messenger, to wish me there
Beside her, in Calypso’s lair
To hear my sad, sweet singing bird
My nightingale, not mockingbird!
Her song’s the sweetest sorrow’s sung
It sounds serene as church bells rung
With clang of comfort to console
This sorry sinner’s mortal soul
Lorraine, she is my lady love
On wings she soars and sails above
Her music, like the spheres in space
Spreads smiles upon this sinner’s face
And in this bag of aging bones
She melts the heart set hard as stones
Then calls me back to be a child
When love was wonderful and wild.