The Outskirts of Paradise

The outskirts of paradise (The memory of a love)


They lived on the outskirts of paradise,
On a farm in Arcadia valley.
His name was Jim,
And her name was Ali.

He could birth a horse or a cow,
And she’d show you how to can fruit.
They worked sunup to sundown.
They had a big bull in the pasture,
Let me tell ya,
he was really a brut.

And the sheep were in the meadow,
And the cows were in the corn,
And losing their love,
Would make me oh so forlorn.


His hands were hard and calloused,
And she had the figure of a farmers wife.
They loved and laughed,
And had all the joys of a farmers life.

It seems that it was in the springtime,
If memory serves me well.
The coffin was a nice one,
And how sad she was,
I really couldn’t tell.

Jim had gone to heaven
And it was with God he was going to stay.
There was great sorrow in his passing
And after a while,
Ali sold the farm,
And simply moved away.


The sheep were in the meadow,
And the cows were in the corn,
Loosing his love
Had made me oh so forlorn.

The last time I saw Ali,
Was on Jim’s judgment day.
The organist played a sad song.
And I knew the sadness would never go away.

I thought I’d go and see her,
one fine day in the spring.
And I sat in their meadow,
And listened to the whippoorwill sing.

But I simply couldn’t find her and I didn’t know what to say.

She didn’t call or write,
to tell me where she had gone,
And so it was a sad coat,
Again,
That I must put on.

The days turned into months,
And the months turned into years,
And you wonder sometimes,
about your hopes and fears.

So a love grows cold,
as it lays beneath the willow,
in the shadow of it’s limbs.
Then it fads,
And passes gently out of sight.
The chances of it lasting
are as illusive as flickering fire light.






If you’re ever travelin’ down highway 21
And you pop over Gum Spring hill,
Look off to the right,
Cause you’re on the outskirts,
of paradise and the elusive whippoorwill.

All that’s left in my memory,
is a meadow and a barn or two,
And the memory of a love that we shared,
Just me,
And the two of you.

Just the memory of a love,
that we shared between us,
Jim and Ali,
Right there,
In Arcadia valley.


The whippoorwill sings his sad sad song

And the sheep are in the meadow,
And the cows are in the corn,
losing their love,
Has made me oh so . . . Forlorn.