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,
Her and her canvas would follow him wherever he would go
Yes, she and her canvas still follow
'Cause they are painters and they are painting themselves
A lovely…
'Cause they are painters and they are painting themselves
A lovely world