I saw that she was rather young
She was standing at the counter of a dusty old arcade
She must have weighed at least 200 pounds
But everything she sold was slim and finely made
I'd seen nothing so enchanting for so long
This was Montreal, I was hiding from the rain
She wore black fingernails and went right into a song

As she slowly came to me with this refrain:
I'm selling all my mother's clothes:
Her lingerie, her skirts and coats
Her beauty was as pure as this affair is sordid
I'm selling all my mother's clothes
And, yes, I find it morbid

She chain-smoked as she handled dark velour
These hand-made things she showed me in her dramatic fashion
She saw for me these clothes held an allure
The moiré and silk seemed to stir my passion
It was Dior, it was Chanel, a certain cut, a seamless seam
The black-nailed girl could clearly see my weakness
A weakness fed by a strange and sensuous dream
With a joyless laugh she said those lines again:

I'm selling all my mother's clothes:
Her lingerie, her skirts and coats
Her beauty was as pure as this affair is sordid
I'm selling all my mother's clothes
And, yes, I find it morbid
She showed me last a handbag made of velvet
In it were expensive stones like amethyst and jade
Black sapphires had been shaped just like a rose
For the funeral of a lover her mother had them made
It probably was Paris where he died, is what she said
As this big forgotten daughter glanced towards the window
I'll sell the sapphires cheap, the man's long dead!
With a vacant laugh she gave those lines again:

I'm selling all my mother's clothes:
Her lingerie, her skirts and coats
Her beauty was as pure as this affair is sordid
I'm selling all my mother's clothes
And, yes, I find it morbid