He rises in the morning
Long before the sun.
You know he won't be home again
Until the night has come.
...
The sky is painted crimson-gold
With swaths of orange and red,
As clouds of cotton candy-pink
Form above my head.
...
The Lord gave unto us a son
Too young to understand.
Two little hands, two tiny feet,
On which he'd never stand,
...
I remember well the day
you left.
We hardy said goodbye.
But even though you're
...
Dancing, Prancing,
Leaping high,
Painting rainbows
In the sky.
...
My fantasies are all of you,
I dream of you each night,
And hope that when the morning comes
You'll be here by my side.
...
Ballad Of A Fishing Widow
He rises in the morning
Long before the sun.
You know he won't be home again
Until the night has come.
He gathers up his tackle,
And piles up his gear.
At four o'clock in the morning,
You know Saturday is here.
His minnows are his buddies,
His rod is his best friend,
His boat, his prized possession,
It's life, he will defend.
He says he won't be home late
He says that he won't linger
Just like the fish, we swallow it
Hook, line and sinker!
So, all you football widows,
Consider yours, the luck,
For all the fish in Charleston,
I wouldn't give a buck!