I work down at Ashbury Hills, minimum wage but it pays the bills, cleaning floors and leading hymns on Sunday. Catherine Davis, room 303, the sweetest soul we ever could meet, I bring her morning coffee every day. She calls me Raymond, she thinks I'm her son, tells me get washed up for supper before your daddy gets home. She goes on about the weather, how she can't believe it's already 1943. She calls me Raymond, and that's alright by me. She talks about clothes on the line of the summer air, Christmas morning and Thanksgiving prayer, and stories of a family that I never had. Sometimes I find myself wishing I'd been there. When she calls me Raymond, she thinks I'm her son, tells me get washed up for supper before your daddy gets home. She goes on about the weather, how she can't believe it's already 1943. She calls me Raymond, and that's alright by me. There's a small white cross in Arlington, reads Raymond Davis, 71, and tells she can see his face again. I'm gonna feel him the best I can. When she calls me Raymond, she thinks I'm her son, tells me get washed up for supper before your daddy gets home. She goes on about the weather, how she can't believe it's already 1943. She calls me Raymond, and that's alright by me. She calls me Raymond, and that's alright by me. And that's alright by me.