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Humidity’s risin’, the air is capsizin’
on waitin’ for her to come home.
The bayou is stewin’ in somethin’ that’s brewin’:
suspicions, that she ain’t alone.
Bullfrogs are croakin’ on the mists they are smokin’:
knowin’ that somethin’ ain’t right.
When she left this mornin’, the nets, they were haulin’
an’ now they are draped for the night.
The moon’s in her hidin’ for fear of confidin’
with that which is chokin’ the air.
A cruel kind of silence, unseen in its violence:
ain’t nothin’ but evil out there.
The rooster to preenin’ the night in its leavin’:
I’m dreadin’ the madness of day.
When catfish come trawlin’ an’ critters a callin’,
an awakenin’ into the fray.
I’ve heard all the stories, when she, in her glories:
some stranger was burnin’ her flame.
I left that to humour, some ill-mouthed rumour:
gossipers defilin’ her name.
The truth of the matter the mornin’ will scatter
the day into light’s disarray.
I should have known better but who knows the weather
when waitin’, the comin’ of day.
Make way! To the jetty, my boat's at the ready,
her timbers are achin’ to flee.
I’ll pack me a compass an’ belly the canvas
on winds of whatever will be.
What use irritatin’ the tempers of waitin’:
the waitin’ for what, but her lies.
A fair wind’s a greetin’ the sails when a meetin’
an’ the tide is calm on the rise.
No more will I find me in that left behind me:
what’s done in the makin’s, is done.
The ebbin’ of evenin’ will dim a man’s leavin’:
departin’ what she has become.
To yon, the horizon, no use criticisin’:
I’ll leave what is left of my heart.
To the bayou, her skeeters, croakers an’ cheaters;
whose gators would rip you apart.
on waitin’ for her to come home.
The bayou is stewin’ in somethin’ that’s brewin’:
suspicions, that she ain’t alone.
Bullfrogs are croakin’ on the mists they are smokin’:
knowin’ that somethin’ ain’t right.
When she left this mornin’, the nets, they were haulin’
an’ now they are draped for the night.
The moon’s in her hidin’ for fear of confidin’
with that which is chokin’ the air.
A cruel kind of silence, unseen in its violence:
ain’t nothin’ but evil out there.
The rooster to preenin’ the night in its leavin’:
I’m dreadin’ the madness of day.
When catfish come trawlin’ an’ critters a callin’,
an awakenin’ into the fray.
I’ve heard all the stories, when she, in her glories:
some stranger was burnin’ her flame.
I left that to humour, some ill-mouthed rumour:
gossipers defilin’ her name.
The truth of the matter the mornin’ will scatter
the day into light’s disarray.
I should have known better but who knows the weather
when waitin’, the comin’ of day.
Make way! To the jetty, my boat's at the ready,
her timbers are achin’ to flee.
I’ll pack me a compass an’ belly the canvas
on winds of whatever will be.
What use irritatin’ the tempers of waitin’:
the waitin’ for what, but her lies.
A fair wind’s a greetin’ the sails when a meetin’
an’ the tide is calm on the rise.
No more will I find me in that left behind me:
what’s done in the makin’s, is done.
The ebbin’ of evenin’ will dim a man’s leavin’:
departin’ what she has become.
To yon, the horizon, no use criticisin’:
I’ll leave what is left of my heart.
To the bayou, her skeeters, croakers an’ cheaters;
whose gators would rip you apart.
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