He killed his wife on a moonlit night, he stuck a switchblade in her skin Dumped her body in an open field, by the old sailors inn
He took a greyhound bus to St Louis, with thirty dollars and some gin Some rosary beads and a jailhouse prayer, nobody seen hide of him
He'll be drinking in some strip joint, she'll be rotting in the ground
In her dress of dirt and leaves, one of the ones they never found
Every time he draws the queen of spades, she'll do the mambo in his head A prairie rose in a shallow grave, only St Peter gets the dead