He's out of Newark, a retired detective
Tryin' to lose some of what he'd seen
He had twenty-five years on the streets
Where the Lord does not intervene
Packed his shaving kit into a small suitcase
Slipped the rosary off the night shelf
Just the cross remains of his faith
Was all that he had left
And the pale sun of the evening
Cut through the windshield as he drove
Head south on thе Jersey turnpike
To thе Lady of Monroe
He and his wife, they'd raised a daughter
But his job was all he'd ever really known
Now she was in southern Indiana
With a family of her own
As the refinery fields went rushing by
Thought of his little brown-eyed girl
Shooting cans in the river with his old .22
As the summer trees unfurled
And the pale sun of the evening
Slipped down, velvet and low
Heard murmured prayers softly rising
To the Lady of Monroe
His rosary hung from the rear-view mirror
A map 'neath the Burger King bag in the front seat
His gun's tucked deep in the glove box
Another useless tool of his trade he'll never need
From his desk in the south precinct
He'd walked that dirty mile
Well, that was all over now
He was gonna learn to live, just to live for a while
Virgin Mother, give me peace
Peace I've never known
In the sunlight, lifted hands softly swayin'
To our Lady of Monroe
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