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Vanilla
Sunday
Copyright;
Charlee
Marshall
copyright
1989 © Outback Music Publishing
rimmusic@fan.net.au
All rights reserved. International copyrights
secured.
The
day old Job Martin died
Was cold beyond belief
The grey gums on the mountainside
Were stricken dumb with grief
The she-oaks by the swamps again
Dispelled a dismal tune
And dingoes in their dusky den
Bewailed the fading moon.
The
hearse drove out from Gungadoo
The eulogy was fine
The preacher said, as best he knew,
Old Job was ninety-nine
The widow brushed her staggering locks
And said she didnt know...
They had no calendars or clocks
T.V. or radio.
We kept no count of month or year
He didnt drink or smoke...
A stranger, who was standing near,
Walked up to her and spoke:
Perhaps you think it wise he said
A precept here to see
The hard, abstentious life he led
Caused his longevity?
The widow made her genuflects
And sadly did she state
Alas, he always looked for sex
On Sundays, right on eight
Hold hard! the stranger cried in shock.
If things were as you claim,
How did you know when eight oclock
Or even Sunday, came?
That
little church just down the track
Has bells that proudly chime...
These were his aphrodisiac
He tried to keep time;
In fact, Im sure this claim is true
Id still be with my man
But for that bloke from Gungadoo
And his Mr Whippy van!
Copyright;
Written by Charlee Marshall
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