It is the ninth hour in the evening.
The town is quiet, the earth is breathing.
I cannot be sure, I cannot trust
That a woman can be fair and just.
So as I await the peace of slumber
I hear the sound of distant thunder.
It may bring rain, or a storm,
But she, a more uncertain form
Is in the corner waiting silent.
I'm trying to follow where her eyes went.
Is she dead? Is she alive?
Is there anyway that I'll survive?
Two thoughts find rest inside my head,
And turn my light from green to red.
A woman cannot be understood.
A woman cannot be wholly good.
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