Decemberists E. Watson
The year old painted 'pallid' grey, the storm was coming in. Folks were Lining out in all directions. Me and 'Hord' and Henry Short were pitching On the skiff, trying to make it home before the night. And the grey waves Were rolling. Bold the brave, brave ocean and roll the suckers in. Well I Don't keep to goings on, I tend to stick with kin, but Watson had it in From the beginning. Built that house on 'Chatum' bed, wine wash knotted Pine. 90 acres 'burrowed' for 'decaying.' 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. Drown these everglades, Put us in our place. We laid Edgar Watson in his grave. We laid him in his Grave.
'Till I'm dust I'll never know why he came to shore, with all those killers Gathered on the shoreline. Kicking holes in ugly mud, trigger fingers Pinched, brace your rifles, bristled in the wind. And we towed his body North bound, buried him all face down to 'get' you into Hell.
Lord, bring down down the flood. Wash away the blood. Drown these Everglades, 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.
