By David Allan Coe And J. Bolotin

MARIA HAS A MUSIC BOX SHE WINDS UP MOST EVERY DAY

ONCE A WEEK IS ALL IT TAKES TO MAKE THE MUSIC PLAY

MELODY IS JUST SOME CHILDHOOD LULLABY HER MOTHER

USED TO SING TO HER.

AND THE ROAD DOWN TO THE CITY GOES RIGHT BY MARIA'S DOOR

I OFTEN WALK RIGHT BY HER HOUSE ON MY WAY TO THE STORE

UP THERE WHERE THOSE ITALIAN MOTHERS

DRESS THERE SHIVERING BAMBINOS

FOR THE RAIN


SHE TELLS ME ABOUT JESUS AND ALL HIS GALLANT MEN

I TELL HER ABOUT FANTASY

MARIA SHE'S THIS LADY ON THE WAY DOWN TO THE RIVER

MARIA, SHE'S A MYSTERY


YEA PASSING BY THIS MORNING I DREW A PICTURE IN MY HEAD

OUR BODIES IN SOME CANDLELIGHT THAT GLOWED UPON OUR SKIN

MAYBE IF I TOUCHED HER SHE WOULD DISAPPEAR

LIKE ANGELS IN A DREAM.