| I cry at her bowl, dog’s dying day
|
| A bone in her bowl, a watery grave
|
| See, I am a sailor, but I’m not so great
|
| I keep fishin' for roadkill, passin' out on the waves
|
| Shimmering sea, stretched end to end
|
| A flickering bowl, A Shivering friend
|
| See, that’s Mr. Murphy, my leathery brave
|
| He’s whimpering «Taps» now, for his plank-walk parade
|
| I’ve never been a joiner, no, I’ve quit every team I’ve been on
|
| Now I’m crying in my coffee, that’s not sea salt in my eyes
|
| Cause me and Murphy, we have been through it, and I hate watching him die
|
| (whistling)
|
| So I wait for my wisdom, like I wait for my wife
|
| Like I wait for a story, helps me wait out the night
|
| Like when I was an archer, but I couldn’t shoot straight
|
| I broke all of ma’s windows, I poked holes through her drapes
|
| And I laugh to myself, but I can’t tell you why
|
| The hung-over sun, sneaks back in the sky
|
| But Murphy went peaceful, he went decent and right
|
| At least better than I will, when it’s my turn to die
|
| And I wear his collar on my wrist
|
| And I bury him down at the beach
|
| No crying, no coffin, just a body and a hole
|
| No praying, no singing, no saving any souls
|
| The only thing I’m saving, yeah
|
| Is a bone inside a bowl |