Whiskey on a Sunday

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