An old woman on the bus took my seat,
surrounded by her bed light and her old things.
I named her an Anne, maybe an Anne,
a great looking woman ready to die.
Maybe a widow in the dawn,
who’d played the oboe, but her oboe’s gone.
I named her an Anne, maybe an Anne.
I hope she gets to the symphony.
A mile south of the tracks
by an old schoolhouse full of the past,
she put it all away, her oboe’s gone, her oboe’s gone away.
An old woman on the bus took my seat
surrounded by her bed light and her old things.
I named her an Anne, maybe an Anne.
I named her Anne, maybe an Anne.
I named her Anne, maybe an Anne.
I named her Anne, maybe an Anne …