E. Watson

The year old painted pallid gray, 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 gray 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 Chatham bed, wine wash knotted pine.
Ninety acres 'burrowed' for the cane
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, and 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 ashore,
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 northbound,
Buried him all face down with a good view 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.