I'm listening to Jimmy, having a beer, and cleaning out my closet (HOLY SHIT! How did I get this many clothes in this many sizes, NONE of which fit me?). Guac. Kid's son is staying here for a while during the time I'm in D.C., so I want to make some room for him to at least hang up some clothes or something. Anyway, so, I'm listening to Jimmy and here's how it usually works... I'll just be listening, going about my business, and one particular song will really strike me as being THE song that totally describes my mood or whatever. And tonight, that song is "The Wino and I Know." It's partially the words, and partially the music, but for tonight, it's just the song of my moody life.
THE WINO AND I KNOW Jimmy Buffett
The ice cream man he's a hillbilly fan,
He's got seventy-eights by Hank Snow;
Walks down the street, shufflin' his feet,
To the rhythm that only he knows.
And I've seen him in so many places,
I saw him the night I was born;
In a Bourbon Street bar I received my first scar
From an old man so tattered and torn.
And the Wino and I know the pains of street singin'
Like the door-to-door salesman knows the pains of bell ringin'
It's a strange situation,
a wild occupation,
Living my life like a song.
Well the coffee is strong at the Cafe Du Monde,
And the donuts are too hot to touch;
But just like a fool, when those sweet goodies cool,
I ate 'til I ate way too much.
Cause I'm livin' on things that excite me,
Be they pastries or lobsters or love;
I'm just tryin' to get by being quiet and shy,
In a world full of pushin' and shove.
And the Wino and I know the pains of backbustin',
Like the farmer knows the pain of his pick-up truck rustin'.
It's a strange situation,
a wild occupation,
Living my life like a song.
Sweet Senorita, Won't you please come with me?
Back to the island, honey, back to the sea;
Back to the only place that I want to be.
And the Wino and I know the joys of the ocean,
Like a boy knows the joys of his milkshake in motion.
It's a strange situation,
a wild occupation,
Living my life like a song.
