Flora Barone hates to see how old she's grownnColoured the window, shattered the glassnCovered her body with objects from the pastnnHer mother starred in a vaudeville shownHer hair was famous, as white as snownMen gave her gifts, all for a curlnShe passed them on to her little girlnnFlora walking down the streetnFlora Barone, I'm with you my sweetnFlora walking down the streetnFlora Barone, I'm with you my sweetnnHer wedding day to her husband, BillnWas the happiest day, her heart was fillednHe gave her a slip, the colour of the skynThe same as her majestic eyesnWhen she died Flora's hair was richnWith silk flowing ribbons, and diamond encrusted clipsnnFlora's daughter was constantly illnInstead of toys, she has brightly colored pillsnA patchwork quilt, it covered her bednAnd whenever Flora washed it, the water bled rednnFlora walking down the streetnFlora Barone, I'm with you my sweetnFlora walking down the streetnFlora Barone, I'm with you my sweetnnFlora Barone hates to see how old she's grownnColoured the window, shattered the glassnCovered her body with objects from the pastnnFlora walking down the streetnFlora Barone, I'm with you my sweetnFlora walking down the streetnFlora Barone, I'm with you my sweet