She lived on the curve in the road
In an old tar paper shack
On the south side of the town
On the wrong side of the tracks.
Sometimes on the way into town
We'd say, "Mama can we stop and give her a ride?"
Sometimes we did but her hands flew from her side,
Wild eyed Crazy Mary.
Take a bottle drink it down. Pass it around.
Pass it around.
Next morning on the way into town
Saw some skid marks and followed them around.
Over the curve, through the fields,
Into the house of Mary.