| She lived on the curve of the road |
| In an old tar-paper shack |
| On the south side of 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 she shook her head and her hands flew from her side |
| Wild eyed, crazy Mary |
| Down a long dirt road |
| Past the parson’s place |
| An old blue car |
| We used to race |
| Little country store with a sign tacked to the side |
| Said ' No L-O-I-T-E-R-I-N-G allowed' |
| Underneath that sign always congregated quite a crowd |
| Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around |
| Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around |
| Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around |
| One night thunder cracked mercy backed outside my windowsill |
| Dreamed I was flying high above the trees, over the hills |
| Looked down into the house of Mary |
| Bare bulb hung there, newspaper-covered walls |
| And Mary rising up above it all |
| Next morning on the way into town |
| We saw some skid marks, and followed them around |
| Over the curve, through the fields |
| Into the house of Mary |
| That which you fear the most, could meet you halfway |
| That which you fear the most, could meet you halfway |
| Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around |
| Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around |
| Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around |
| Drink it down, pass it around |
| Round, round, round, round |
| Where it stops nobody knows |
| Nobody knows |