| Come and gather 'round me people
|
| And a tale to you I’ll tell
|
| Of my father and his father
|
| In the days before the spill
|
| With an endless sky above 'em
|
| And a restless sea below
|
| And every blessin' flowing from the Gulf of Mexico
|
| From my Granddad with the shrimp boats
|
| From the time that he was grown
|
| And he scrimped and saved and bought himself
|
| A trawler of his own
|
| He was rough and he was ready
|
| And he drank when he was home
|
| And he made his family’s living on the Gulf of Mexico
|
| We were rolling
|
| We were rolling
|
| Past the deep blue water
|
| He was rolling
|
| Well my Daddy drove a crew boat
|
| Hauling workers to the rigs
|
| He was sick of mending nets
|
| And couldn’t stand the smell of fish
|
| He drew a steady paycheck
|
| 20 years at Texico
|
| When he died they spread his ashes
|
| On the Gulf of Mexico
|
| We were rolling
|
| We were rolling
|
| Past the deep green water
|
| He was rolling
|
| As for me, I think of nothing
|
| Any grander than the day
|
| That I stepped out on the drillin' floor
|
| To earn a roughneck’s pay
|
| Then one night I swear I saw the devil
|
| Crawlin' from the hole
|
| And he spilled the guts of hell out in the Gulf of Mexico
|
| We were rolling
|
| We were rolling
|
| 'Cross the blood red water
|
| We were rolling |