There is a man, far along the dirt road

Who sits under the sweet peach tree.

He drinks in the twilight, pours out his spirits

Underneath that sweet peach tree.

I’ll join him sometimes, perch against an old white fence.

Cracked lips will stretch, droopy words will fumble

And he’ll tell me of the ghosts he sees,

Underneath that sweet peach tree

Inky night will curl to orange

By the time his last words fall

His eyes will roll, his neck will curve

Underneath that sweet peach tree.

A graceless bow to a nonexistent figure,

And a tumble down the hill,

Far, far away he goes

From that sweet peach tree.