She is Gone
Words and music by Catherine Faber © 1994


She is dressed for sin, in a blouse so thin, with her hair like sunlit flame,
Fifteen years old, looking scared and cold, and Candy is her name.
Now a man drives by with a hungry eye and a fifty dollar note.
And he drives her out down a country route with a jacknife in his coat.

	She is gone, she is gone, and the earth closed over her head.
	Like the ones before, just a worthless whore,
	Selling sin to buy her bread.

So intent is he that he does not see that his quarry's fear has passed;
A fresh grave waits by the junkyard gates, the seventh, and the last.
Now he lays her down on the cold damp ground, with the moss to make her bed.
Where the willow grieves, with its rustling leaves, like the voices of the dead.

Now he stills her shout as the knife comes out, and he puts his face to hers:
"Six lives I fear I have taken here, the seventh shall be yours."
But the small cold fist that grips his wrist has all his strength and more.
"Oh no," says she, "that shall not be -- for I've been here before."

"There are five," she sighs, "who stretch and rise, to pay you for your tricks.
Beneath the firs where the grave-dirt stirs, for I was number six.
Chill and dumb from their graves they come, to serve you in my stead.
And more besides -- they shall be your brides, to grace your wedding bed."