Whiskey on a Sunday
© 2007 by Paul Espinoza,
Forest Moon Music, BMI, all rights reserved

Chorus:
Come day, go day, Wish in my heart it were Sunday,
Drinking buttermilk thru the week, Whiskey on a Sunday.

He sits in the corner of old beggar's bush,
On top of an old packing crate.
he has three wooden dolls that can dance and can sing,
And he croons with a smile on his face .

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.

And sad to relate that old Seth Davy died,
In nineteen hundred and four.
The three wooden dolls in the dustbin were laid,
His song will be heard nevermore.

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.

Copyright © 1998 - 2007 by Golden Bough, Inc.