The coffee pot is boiling, the sun is shyly raising,
The road-crew goes to toiling somewhere close beyond my view;
The blanket is neatly folded, the pillows undisturbed,
The only thing this morning lacks is any trace of you.
I don’t recall the day you left, I just recall the night,
The frightful dreams tormenting me until the morning’s light;
And when the dawn had woken, a worse nightmare befell,
That first morning on my lonesome was my nearest taste of hell.