The wind can moan a lullaby, they say, But Grandpa’s eyes turn hard and grey. He talks of 'ninety-nine, the Carrabelle blow, A tale of terror, fast and low. No wire warnings hummed across the land, No time to run, no place to stand. Just the barometer's drop, a fevered sweat, When the Gulf rose up, and no man fled. My Auntie Mae, she tells it too, you know, Of whispers carried, soft and low. From cousins lost near Apalachicola Bay, Their houses swept and borne away. They watched the sky, a sickly, yellow hue, No one could warn them, not a soul knew. They prayed to God, by fading lamplight's gleam, Then water claimed the house, and the house claimed the dream. They say the schooners, mighty ocean kings, Were tossed like flotsam on the wind's wild wings. From Pensacola down to Key West's shore, The timber towns just stood no more. I've seen the pictures, seen the splintered wood, But felt that fear, I never really could. Still, when the summer clouds begin to mass, A cold dread grips my soul, and my soul grips the glass. Old Man Johnson, down by the phosphor mine, He'll tell you how the waters climb. Not just the coast, but inland, deep and wide, Where Okeechobee swells its deadly tide. He speaks of 'twenty-eight, when dark despair took hold, A story far too grim to be easily told. He swears the lake still sighs with every breath, A watery tomb for thousands, and for thousands, a tomb watery.
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