The air all painted pallid gray
|
The storm was coming in
|
Folks were lining out in all directions
|
Me and Holt and Henry Short
|
Were pitching on the skiff
|
Trying to make it home before the night
|
And the gray waves were rolling
|
Bold the brave, brave ocean and rolled us suckers in
|
|
Well I don't keep to goings on
|
I tend to stick with kin
|
But Watson had it in from the beginning
|
He built that house on Chatham Bend
|
A white-washed knotted pine
|
Ninety acres furrowed for the cane
|
And he drove it down from Georgia
|
His dad a martyred soldier
|
In the war between the states
|
|
Lord, bring down the flood
|
Wash away the blood
|
And drown these everglades
|
And put us in our place
|
We laid Edgar Watson in his grave
|
We laid him in his grave
|
|
'Til I'm dust I'll never know
|
Why he came ashore, with all those killers
|
Gathered on the shoreline
|
Kicking holes in ugly mud
|
With trigger fingers pinched
|
A brace of rifles, bristled in the wind
|
And we towed his body northbound
|
And buried him all face down with a good view into hell
|
|
Lord, bring down the flood
|
Wash away the blood
|
And drown these Everglades
|
And put us in our place
|
We laid Edgar Watson in his grave
|
We laid him in his grave
|
We laid him in his grave
|
We laid him in his grave
|
|
-----------------
|
E. Watson
|
| The Decemberists |
