It is a beautiful and crisp Maine morning!
Come day, go day Wish in my heart it were Sunday Drinking buttermilk thru the week Whiskey on a Sunday I am singing old Irish songs and wishing I could write something that matters, or just finish this drink before I fall asleep. He sits in the corner of Bevvington Bush On top of an old packing case he has three wooden dolls that can dance and can sing And he croons with a smile on his face I curse myself for spending a night at work reading. Hemingway is bad enough when you read classic tales but his real life stuff spins me in a confusingly realistic way. His tired old hands tug away at the strings And the puppets dance up and down A far better show than you ever would see In the fanciest theatre in town I think how Papa would hunt big game or fish for swords off the Gulf coast, or watch good friends gored by bulls while drinking soft blended whiskey, then write tales of the same days while battling drunk and depressed. And sad to relate that old Seth Davy died In 1904 The three wooden dolls in the dustbin were laid His song will be heard nevermore I wonder how Hemingway stayed sad when the world he adventured into was laid out like Solomon's treasure chest and anything more desired could be had by speaking his name, for those who didn't know they beheld a literary genius. But some stormy night when you're passing that way And the wind's blowing up from the sea You'll still hear the song of old Seth Davy As he croons to his dancing dolls three I think of Hemingway and wonder why a brilliant pen, bloodied or clean can not create the world of peace that the words printed upon his pages opens wide for anyone who cares to read. Come day, go day Wish in my heart it were Sunday Drinking buttermilk thru the week Whiskey on a Sunday
Whiskey on a Sunday or Come Day, Go Day, as recorded by The Irish Rovers
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