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Year-old painted pallored grey |
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The storm was comin' in |
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Folks were lining out in all directions |
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Me and Hoad(?) and Henry Short |
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Were pitchin' on the skiff |
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Tryin' to make it home before the night |
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And the grey waves were rollin' |
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Bold the brave brave ocean |
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And rolled us suckers in |
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Well I don't keep to goings on |
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I tend to stick with kin |
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But Watson had it in from the beginning |
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Built that house on Chatham Bend |
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Of whitewashed knotted pine |
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Ninety acres furrowed for the cane |
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He drove it down from Georgia |
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His dad a martyred soldier |
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In the war between the states |
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Lord bring down the flood |
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Wash away the blood |
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Drown these everglades |
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And put us in our place |
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We laid Edgar Watson in his grave |
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We laid him in his grave |
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Till I'm dust I'll never know |
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Why he came ashore |
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With all those killers |
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Gathered on the shoreline |
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Kicking holes in ugly mud |
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And trigger fingers pinched |
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A brace of rifles bristled in the wind |
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And we towed his body northbound |
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And buried him all face down |
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With a good view into hell |
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Lord bring down the flood |
|
Wash away the blood |
|
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 |
