Cheeseburger In Paradise
By: Jimmy Buffett
Originally from the 1978 Album:
Son Of A Son Of A Sailor Lyrics:
Tried to amend my carnivorous habits
Made it nearly seventy days
Losin’ weight without speed, eatin’ sunflower seeds
Drinkin’ lots of carrot juice and soakin’ up rays
But at night I’d have these wonderful dreams
Some kind of sensuous treat
Not zucchini, fettuccini, or bulgur wheat
But a big warm bun and a huge hunk of meat
Cheeseburger is paradise
Heaven on earth with an onion slice
Not too particular, not too precise
I’m just a cheeseburger in paradise
Heard about the old time sailor men
They eat the same thing again and again
Warm beer and bread they say could raise the dead
Well, it reminds me of the menu at a Holiday Inn
But times have changed for sailors these days
When I’m in port I get what I need
Not just Havanas or banana or daiquiris
But that American creation on which I feed
Cheeseburger is paradise medium rare with muenster’d be nice
Not too particular, not too precise
I’m just a cheeseburger in paradise
I like mine with lettuce and tomato
Heinz 57 and french fried potatoes
Big kosher pickle and a cold draught beer
Well, good god Almighty which way do I steer
From a cheeseburger in paradise
Makin’ the best of every virtue and vice
Worth every damn bit of sacrifice
To get a cheeseburger in paradise
To be a cheeseburger in paradise
I’m just a cheeseburger in paradise
I like mine with lettuce and tomato
Heinz 57 and french fried potatoes
Big kosher pickle and a cold draught beer
Well, good god Almighty which way do I steer
Originally Posted by Jimmy Buffett Jimmy’s Notes:
The myth of the cheeseburger in paradise goes back to a long trip on my first boat, the Euphoria. We had run into some very rough weather crossing the Mona Passage between Hispaniola and Puerto Rico and broke our bow sprit. The ice in our box had melted, and we were doing the canned-food-and-peanut-butter diet. The vision of a piping hot cheeseburger kept popping into my mind. We limped up the Sir Francis Drake Channel and into Roadtown on the island of Tortola, where a brand-new marina and bar sat on the end of the dock, like a mirage. We secured the boat, kissed the ground, and headed for the restaurant. To our amazement, we were offered a menu that featured an American cheeseburger and pina coladas. Now these were the the days when supplies in that part of the world were rather scarce-when horsemeat was more plentiful than ground beef in the tiny stores of the Third World. Anyway, we gave particular instructions to the waiter on how we wanted them cooked and what we wanted on them-to which little attention was paid. It didn’t matter. The overdone burgers on the burned, toasted buns tasted like manna from heaven, for they were the realization of my fantasy burgers on the trip. That’s the true story. I’ve heard other people and places claim that I stopped or cooked in their restaurants, but this is the way it happened.
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