Well, I woke up Sunday morning
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
Then I washed my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
...ok, it's not that bad. But Johnny Cash sure knows what he's talking about. I normally love Sundays. But the past six or eight months it's been rather tough to get excited about it. Yeah, I'm in a bit of a slump, but this too shall pass. Well today, I woke up, for the third day with a deepening chest-cold. Yeah, it's a doosey too. Complete with that green junk from the back and bottom of your left lung. Oh, additionally any time I get lower than a 45 degree angle my head fills up with yeller pine sap. I friggin' hate being sick. I've had my flu shot, but I think the kids bring it into the house when they come for piano lessons. (My saintly wife teaches piano lessons, cans her own pumpkin filling, feels bad when the laundry isn't done etc. etc. I on the other hand fight the urge to shoot people (It's ok, Im in the Army) and alternate periods of rage and extreme happiness.) Anyhow, so I'm sick and I feel like I can pull this off to stay home.
Where were we. Oh, so it's one of those mornings. I didnt rest at all and I'm really contemplating plugging in my ipod and listening to Johnny all morning. I certainly can't watch "Teen Nick" with my son whom is also sick. I'll slit my wrists if I have to watch one more episode of I Carly.
Alright, dont let me get you down, I'll leave you with another of my personal favorites:
Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war
Gather round me people there's a story I would tell
About a brave young Indian you should remember well
From the land of the Pima Indian
A proud and noble band
Who farmed the Phoenix valley in Arizona land
Down the ditches for a thousand years
The water grew Ira's peoples' crops
'Till the white man stole the water rights
And the sparklin' water stopped
Now Ira's folks were hungry
And their land grew crops of weeds
When war came, Ira volunteered
And forgot the white man's greed
[CHORUS:]
Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war
There they battled up Iwo Jima's hill,
Two hundred and fifty men
But only twenty-seven lived to walk back down again
And when the fight was over
And when Old Glory raised
Among the men who held it high
Was the Indian, Ira Hayes
[CHORUS:]
Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war
Ira returned a hero
Celebrated through the land
He was wined and speeched and honored; Everybody shook his hand
But he was just a Pima Indian
No water, no crops, no chance
At home nobody cared what Ira'd done
And when did the Indians dance
[CHORUS:]
Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war
Then Ira started drinkin' hard;
Jail was often his home
They'd let him raise the flag and lower it
like you'd throw a dog a bone!
He died drunk one mornin'
Alone in the land he fought to save
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch
Was a grave for Ira Hayes
[CHORUS:]
Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war
Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes
But his land is just as dry
And his ghost is lyin' thirsty
In the ditch where Ira died
Have a great day everyone. We'll see you on when the mucus is clear.
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