any which way the wind may be blowing.
I am going, I am going
Where streams of whiskey are flowing.
any which way the wind may be blowing.
I am going, I am going
Where streams of whiskey are flowing.
and the rowers are not showing,
any signs of ever slowing
There's no earthly way of knowing
Which direction we are going.
There's no knowing where we're rowing
Or which way the river's flowing.
Is it raining?
Is it snowing?
Is a hurricane a blowing?
Not a speck of light is showing
so the danger must be growing.
Are the fires of hell a glowing?
Is the grisly reaper mowing?
Yes! The danger must be growing
For the rowers keep on rowing.
And they're certainly not showing
any signs that they are slowing
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