E. Watson - The Decemberists

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