My mother drank Livingston’s screw top wine
in the summer of ’71.
At the bar she was called, “Sweet Caroline,”
Around our campfire she sang Glen Campbell songs.
In the summer of ’71,
we never wore shoes, or combed our hair.
Around our campfire she sang Glen Campbell songs,
sometimes we’d dance outside the bar’s back door,
We never wore shoes, or combed our hair.
In the morning, she’d drink coffee through a straw.
Sometimes we’d dance outside the bar’s back door;
Dad was on another tour in Vietnam.
In the morning she’d drink coffee through a straw;
her hands shook so hard I’d hold the mug.
Dad was on another tour in Vietnam,
but he was there the day medics strapped her up.
Her hands shook hard so I’d hold the mug.
I knew she was sick, but she was always close by.
Dad was there the day medics strapped her up.
Though we never wore shoes or combed our hair.
I knew she was sick, but she was always close by.
She quit drinking and spent most her time with new friends,
Though we never wore shoes or combed our hair.
Strangers told us our own stories through a new lens,
She quit drinking and spent most her time with new friends,
I can still see her cocked smile over the glass.
Strangers told us our own stories through a new lens,
I can hear on the juke her man Johnny Cash.
I can still see her cocked smile over the glass.
She drank Dr. Livingston’s screw top wine.
I can hear on the juke her man Johnny Cash.
At the bar she was called “Sweet Caroline.”
