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 colour carelessly
Painted his portrait a thousand times
Or maybe just his smile
Her and her canvas would follow him wherever he would go
'Cause they were painters and they were painting themselves
a lovely world

Oil streaked daisies covered the living room walls
He put water-coloured roses in her hair
He said 'Love, I love you,
I want to give you mountains, the sunshine, the sunset too
I just want to give you a world as beautiful as you are to me
'Cause I'm a painter and I want to paint you
a lovely world'

So they sat down and made a drawing of their love,
They made it an art to live by
They painted every passion, every home,
created every beautiful child
In the winter they were weavers of warmth,
In summer they were carpenters of love
They thought blue prints were too sad so they made them yellow
And they were painters and they had painted themselves
a lovely world

Until one day when the rain fell as thick as black oil
and in her heart she knew something was wrong
She went running through the orchard screaming
'No God, don't take him from me'
And by the time she got there she feared he already had gone

She got to where he lay
Water-coloured roses in his hands for her
She threw them down screaming
'Damn you, man, don't leave me,
with nothing left behind but these cold paintings,
these cold portraits, to remind me'

He said 'Love, I only leave a little, try to understand
I put my soul in this life, we've created with these four hands
Love I leave, but only a little, this world holds me still
My body may die now, but these paintings are real'

So, many seasons came, and many seasons went
And many times she saw her loves face
watering the flowers, talking to the trees
and singing to his children
And when the wind blew she knew he was listening,
and how he seemed to laugh along
and how he seemed to hold her when she was crying.
'Cause they were painters and they had painted themselves
a lovely world

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 to colour carelessly
Painted his portrait a thousand times,
or maybe just his smile
Her and her canvas would follow him wherever they would go
Yes, her 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

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