The good times are soon over, though you wither on the vine. You're old and unlucky, clover, while that hunter's moon did shine. It's hard now for me to figure, what pride brought all that forth. You were the gun, I was the trigger, the bullets came from one and all. And now it's over. You were the gun, I was the trigger, the bullets came from one and all. And now it's over. How you entered into heaven, put our fit upon the stair. You kicked that door open. I think I lost you there. You were the gun, I was the trigger, the bullets came from one and all. And now it's over. How you entered into heaven, put our fit upon the stair. But through our last open window, heard repentance sing. With the voice of my lost angel, like the very first day of spring. How you entered into heaven, to leave the world behind. Where the winds were kicking out, there's no place for our kind. There's no place for our kind. There's no place for our kind. There's no place for our kind.