The Decemberists - E. Watson lyrics

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 s**ers 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 k**ers 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