A tenement, a dirty street, walked and worn by shoeless feet,
inside it's long and so complete, watched by a shivering sun.
Old eyes in a small child's face, watching as the shadows race,
through walls and cracks and leave no trace,
and daylight's brightness shuns.

The days of Pearly Spencer, a-a-ah, the race is almost run.

Nose pressed hard on frosted glass, gazing as the swollen mass,
on concrete fields where grows no grass, stumbles blindly on.
Iron trees smother the air, but withering they stand and stare,
through eyes that neither know nor care, where the grass is gone.

The days of Pearly Spencer, a-a-ah, the race is almost run.

Pearly where's your milk white skin, what's that stubble on your chin?
It's buried in the rot gut gin, you played and lost, not won.
You played a house that can't be beat,
now look, your head's bowed in defeat.
You walked too far along the street, where only rats can run.

The days of Pearly Spencer, a-a-ah, the race is almost run.

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