Monday, June 4, 2018

where it all ends, I can't fathom...


And the lady she hails from Trinidad
Island of the spices
Salt for your meat and cinnamon sweet
And the rum is for all your good vices

Haul the sheet in as we ride on the wind that our
Forefathers harnessed before us
Hear the bells ring as the tight rigging sings
It's a son of a gun of a chorus

Where it all ends I can't fathom, my friends
If I knew, I might toss out my anchor
So I'll cruise along always searchin' for songs
Not a lawyer, a thief or a banker

But a son of a son, son of a son, son of a son of a sailor
Son of a gun, load the last ton
One step ahead of the jailer
Jimmy Buffet, Son of a Son of Sailor 
 

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