Tekster:
Larry Gatlin

All the gold in California is in a bank in the middle of Beverly Hills In somebody else's name, so if you're dreaming about California It don't matter

Night time magic woman got a hold on me Night and day I pray that your magic won't let me be I'm a prisoner of love and I never wanna be set free I never

The doors to the mission open at seven And the soup will be ready about nine Right now it's six-thirty, they're ragged and dirty They're standin' and

I wandered far away from the place Where I was born and raised I suffered through the Oklahoma dry lands And through New York City's cold and rainy days

She's a broken lady, waiting to be mended Like a potter would mend a broken vase A broken lady, waiting to be mended And have what's left of the pieces