If there is sun, if there is rain, I will stay.
In heavy,
sweet,
fraying evening news,
my heart goes out to him.
Poor little brat in rugged clothes of charming grain and a dirty,
pucky nose,
little man, I love to hear him sing.
By an evening news,
by an evening news,
his face is worn,
his small feet never wash him.
Every evening at half past four,
he comes calling at my door.
Mr. Byron, what's she buying?
Evening news.
His soul, a man is dead,
manner is lonely and sad.
So he keeps up his head,
cause you know things will not be sad.
Evening news,
by an evening news,
cruel to tune to keep away the blues.
But each night he needs to pray,
Lord give me a break someday.
So to bed, he keeps on saying evening news.
