with a sad look on her face,
and a yellow shoe in each hand
dangling from a long white lace,
And she tells you that she's washed them
but the stain can still be seen
and they're really, really wet now,
and she can't remove her screen,
Then open up your window, friend,
And let the shoes hang out,
In company of the golden tree,
And the wind all whistling about.
If she takes the long thin laces white
And ties them in knot
And, coolly, on the hinges there,
she drops those shoes she bought,
And she tells you that she'll leave them there
a-drying in the sun,
until no water droplets drip,
from soles or yellow tongues,
Then open up your window, friend,
and let the shoes hang out,
in the company of the golden tree
and the wind all whistling about.
