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The south coast of Texas is a thin slice of life |
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It' s salty and hard it it stern as a knife |
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Where the wind is for blown up hurricanes for showin' |
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The snakes how to swim and the trees how to lean |
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And the shrimpers and their ladies are out in the beer joints |
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Drinkin' 'em down for they sail with the dawn |
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They're bound for the Mexican Bay of Campeche |
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And the deck hands are singin' 'Adios Jole Blon' |
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In the cars of my youth how I tore thru those sand dunes |
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Cut up my tires on them oyster shell roads |
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But nothin' is forever say the old men in the shipyards |
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Turnin' trees into shrimp oats Hell I guess they ought to know |
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And the shrimpers and their ladies are out in the beer joints |
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Drinkin' 'em down for they sail with the dawn |
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They're bound for the Mexican Bay of Campeche |
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And the deck hands are singin' 'Adios Jole Blon' |
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There's snowbirds in search of that sunshine and night life |
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And fond of greasin' palms down the beach as they're goin' |
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This livin' on the edge of the waters of the world |
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Demands the dignity of whooping cranes and |
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The likes of Gilbert Roland |
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And the shrimpers and their ladies are out in the beer joints |
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Drinkin' 'em down for they sail with the dawn |
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They're bound for the Mexican Bay of Campeche |
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And the deck hands are singin' 'Adios Jole Blon' |
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And the shrimpers and their ladies are out in the beer joints |
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Drinkin' 'em down for they sail with the dawn |
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They're bound for the Mexican Bay of Campeche |
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And the deck hands are singin' 'Adios Jole Blon' |
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The deck hands are singin' 'Adios Jole Blon' |
