He ain't too quaint
That forlorn saint
Sat atop that rain soaked wood
He drags on his cigar, long and good
Flannel shirt and mud smeared Jean
On hard work did he wean
No, he ain't too quaint
That forlorn saint
But the sun sure kissed him hard
And left his skin crack'd and chard
And his fiercest lover yet
Is his own cursed sweat
That runs tenderly on his skin
While he works hard to purge the sin
Of being born a working man
Dec 18, 2019
Dec 18, 2019 at 11:59 PM UTC
He ain't too quaint
That forlorn saint
Sat atop that rain soaked wood
He drags on his cigar, long and good
Flannel shirt and mud smeared Jean
On hard work did he wean
No, he ain't too quaint
That forlorn saint
But the sun sure kissed him hard
And left his skin crack'd and chard
And his fiercest lover yet
Is his own cursed sweat
That runs tenderly on his skin
While he works hard to purge the sin
Of being born a working man